


The Arduous Journey of Michael Burnham on the Road to Enlightenment, or The (Not-So) Vulcan Love Slave

by haisai_andagii



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Attempted Murder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood, Cock & Ball Torture, Condoms, Consent Issues, Cunnilingus, Deep Throating, Dream Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Fondling, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Kink, Knifeplay, M/M, Miscarriage, Multi, Murder, Object Insertion, Oral Sex, Other, Past Child Abuse, Pon Farr, Post-Partum Sex, Pseudo-Incest, Recreational Drug Use, Ritual Sex, Rope Bondage, Running Away, Sex Tapes, Spanking, Surrogacy, Theft, Underwear Theft, Urethral Play, Vaginal Fingering, Wet Dream, Whump, breast milk, handjob, throat fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 31,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haisai_andagii/pseuds/haisai_andagii
Summary: 31 Day Whump/Kink Fic Prompt Challenge.A nonlinear fic set in an AU! Star Trek Discovery, where Michael Burnham remains on Vulcan and joins the Vulcan Expedition Group as opposed to Starfleet.  She basically fucks and/or "angsts" her away around the Vulcan Star System, in one universe or another.  And some of it may get weird and actually not contain fucking.More emphasis on kink than whump.  Chapters will vary in length depending on inspiration.  Please check the tags with each update because it will (usually) be graphic and a hot mess.
Relationships: Jarok (Star Trek)/Surak (Star Trek), Michael Burnham & Sarek, Michael Burnham & Spock, Michael Burnham & Spock & Sybok, Michael Burnham & Sybok, Michael Burnham/Sarek, Michael Burnham/Spock, Michael Burnham/Sybok, Michael Burnham/T'Pring, Michael Burnham/Various Star Trek Aliens, Michael Burnham/Various Vulcans, Mirror Michael Burnham/Spock
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	1. Day 9: Chaste, Stranded

**Author's Note:**

> I am just bored at home.
> 
> The title is a parody of an actual in-universe Vulcan bodice-ripper.
> 
> Seyhan, Director = betting person
> 
> T'Risa, Deputy Director = Lady of Vigorous Survival
> 
> Vulcan Names Source: https://kirshara.wordpress.com/2013/07/05/a-list-of-vulcan-names/

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael believes turnabout is fair play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Attempted rape, coercive sexual situation, unsolicited mind-meld, fantastical inter-species racism, abuse of power, sexual harassment in the workplace, self-defense

Debris caused the crash, leaving their nacelle nothing more than a smouldering wreck, floating about their ship like a woeful satellite. Michael and the others look on as Deputy Director T’Risa rests a mangled stem bolt onto the pilot’s console. 

“Comms, report.”

A petite male with auburn hair steps forward: “Given the density of the debris field, it will take exactly 22 hours for the VDF’s rescue team to reach us.”

“Engineering?”

A female, skin tanned by Forge desert sun, moves to speak: “The holodeck grid suffers from extensive electrical damage. We are unable to run the program, ma’am.”

T’Risa nods, her dark eyes darting at Michael, whose stomach clenches under muted desperation that permeates her superior’s steady gaze. 

“Assistant Burnham,” she calls to her. “You are unbonded, are you not?” Michael nods her head, still very much afraid to speak. T’Risa looks away with a sigh. “Then, you will have to do...”

A few of her teammates raise objections but fall silent with a look. The Deputy Director folds her hands behind her as she draws herself up to her full height. 

“Please, return to your own quarters to prepare. Then, report to the Director Seyhan’s quarter by 1800 hours. Sobek, put Medical to be on high alert, if we need to intervene. Security, with me. I need a team to-”

Her orders continue to flow from her lips, but Michael hears none of them. Her head throbs painfully, as she puts one foot in front of the other, marching along until she is back in her own room.

Mechanically, she disrobes, folding her uniform neatly and resting it on the corner of her bed. Then, Michael climbs into her sonic shower, letting it peel everything away.

~~~

The meditation lamp’s incense does very little to mask the stench of musk and sweat that hangs thickly in the air. Michael finds Director Seyhan in the far corner, hunched over and chanting. She types something into the console on his desk. It pings, causing the PADD resting in its dock to glow. Folding her trembling fists behind her back, she quietly strides over to where he sits, praying for relief from his affliction.

“I have been ordered…” Michael starts, slowly. “...to provide support during your...difficult time…”

His chanting stops. He turns to look at her over his shoulder, his meticulous bangs flattened against his verdant brow with perspiration.

“What would a human know of Pon Farr?’ the Director sneers, revealing each and every gleaming tooth. “Have you ever mated with any Vulcan before?”

Such a matter is deeply private and an incredibly shameful topic of discussion to have with any Vulcan, let alone a superior. Correctly, Michael lowers her gaze as she feels burning shame spreading across her face. “No Vulcan would be with me, sir. To desire such a thing, would be illogical...” 

“I-Illogical…?” Seyhan balks. It is wrong to see him so expressive, vulnerable. His eyes are like the le’mayta’s - hungered, visceral. Scrambling to his feet, he stalks towards her with the same predatory movement. He stops short of her so that she can feel his slightly sour breath on her face. “I will show you how wrong you are...” 

Without ceremony, Seyhan reaches out and, with wizened hands, captures the side of her face in order to initiate a mating bond. If it were not for Sarek’s rigorous mental training, his lust, his anger would have overwhelmed her. But Michael only gasps as she steels herself against the torrent of images:

They are together in his Vulcan Expedition Group Headquarter office. Michael’s back is pinned against a greyed wall; the front of her graduation gown ripped apart, her breasts bouncing wildly over the cups of her brasserie. Droplets of blood, like tiny crimson pearls, fall and stain the pool of white fabric from her skirt and cape at their feet. He has her right leg drawn up against his chest, her white panties hanging from her ankle, flapping like a flag of surrender with each brutal thrust. 

Michael bears a tearful expression - but whether it is caused by pain or pleasure, she does not know. Her counterpart desperately balances herself against the wall as his assault continues.

Seyhan is unyielding, burying himself as deeply as he is able. Their pants echo in the dimly lit office as he ruts against her like a wild ayalok. He pauses briefly to kiss her, tongue lapping at her tear-stained cheeks. 

Michael pulls away with a cry. They might be free from his mind, but he still holds her face dangerously close to his own.

“When I first saw you at your VSA graduation, I wanted nothing more than to _breed_ Sarek’s little _human_ _pet_ ,” he growls, his breath tickling her lips. “How the Gods must favor me tonight to deliver you to me _intact_ …” His hands fall from her face to take hold of her shoulders. In one fluid motion, he tears her sleeping gown from her body with little effort and tosses it aside. Michael resists flinching as the Seyhan cups her bra-covered breasts with firm hands, giving them an experimental squeeze. “Take this off…”

Carefully, she reaches behind her back. As her shaky fingers find the clasp, she catches movement from an odd shadow moving along the length of the door.

Before Michael can blink, the Deputy Director is on him, piercing his neck with a hypospray. With an aborted gasp, he collapses onto the floor in a heap. Michael assists her in fastening the Director’s hands and feets to the bulkheads with thick metal clamps. 

“Even with Pon Farr augmented strength, he will not break free,” T’Risa explains, her lips forming a harsh, thin line as she checks his bonds. Her expression softens - albeit minutely - as she turns her attention to Michael. “Do you require further assistance here?”

She shakes her head. 

“He looks down on you as a human and yet demands that you service him,” she seethes, her tone openly bitter. “As he looks down on me for my mother’s Romulan blood and demands I serve him. He deserves this.” Michael spies tears in the corner of her superior’s dark eyes. T’Risa swipes at them with her sleeve, taking several deep breaths to restore her Vulcanian demeanor. “I will just be outside the door.” 

As she exits, Michael turns back towards their captive. He makes a poor scarecrow; hanging slack from the bulkhead, his erection protruding aggressively through the thin material of his pants. Their mutual lust takes hold of her and Michael moves to palm at it. It is hard and hot and she wants to feel its fullness inside of her, wondering if it would be any different from her dildos. Michael unfastens her bra, letting it fall to the floor, before yanking her panties off. As the Director begins to stir, she grabs hold of his chin and stuffs her underwear into his slack mouth. Drawing her hand back in a wide arc, she strikes him twice across the face. She smiles, through the stinging pain on her palm, as he wakes with a jolt.

_ “Finally awake, pointy-eared pig _ ,” Michael mocks him through their bond. 

“ _ Bitch…! _ ” he rages back, eyes bulging. Foam gathers in the corner of his mouth, frothing over his lips. She finds him pathetic, like a sandworm in an exterminator’s trap. “ _ Release me! _ ”

Michael laughs.

“As you correctly and crudely guessed, I am a virgin. And I will be more than happy to let you be my first, but only in exchange for something I want…” Naked hips swaying, she walks back to his desk to retrieve the PADD. She returns to his side, holding it aloft for him to see a transfer approval and budgetary allowance on its screen. “I want the researcher position on Xahea.”

Seyhan sneers around the wad of fabric. “ _ Is that how you secure your place in Sarek’s clan _ ?  _ Perhaps you lie about your purity. Maybe you use your filthy human mouth to please your traitorous foster father _ ?” 

His burning lust becomes her bunring rage. Michael pulls down his pants around his thighs, takes hold of his testicles, and twists. Her nails dig deeply into his sensitive flesh, threatening to draw blood. He howls through his gag as he bucks against his bondage. The bulkhead clangs loudly against his metal restraints. 

“ _ Sign or expire, _ ” she says coldly through their bond. “ _ Trust me when I say, you will not be missed... _ ”

His thrashing stops. Eyes red-rimmed and wide, he nods before she presses his finger against the PADD’s fingerprint recognition scanner. 

“ _ Request processed. Recipient confirmation required.”  _

Michael smiles as she accepts. Her future is now secured.

“ _ Please…”  _ he pleads. Michael ignores him, choosing to return the PADD to its dock instead. Secured, she watches as the Seyhan bucks hips, his erection swinging pitifully in the air. A small dollop of pre-cum drips from its urethra, hitting the floor with a soft splat.

She feels her mental walls buckle, but not break. His lust sears in her stomach as that familiar slickness gathers in her groin. Michael perches herself on the corner of his desk, her legs splayed. Slowly, she massages her folds and clit, until her fingers come away sticky. She licks at them, savoring its slightly salty taste.

“ _...have mercy…! _ ” he moans at the display. His suffering comes to an end as Michael pushes off the desk and walks back over to him. She wraps her arms around his waist, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. 

“I would give anything to be fucked like that…” she whispers, watching as a vision of the Director ravaging her on his desk unfolds between them. Without warning, Michael sinks her teeth onto his collarbone and bites down hard, wrenching them from his world. 

“ _ Please, let me inside of you…I burn... _ ” he sobs, tears falling. 

  
“A deal is a deal,” she purrs. Taking his erection into her hand once again, Michael pulls back enough to see his sweaty, tormented expression. “...but I am afraid my filthy  _ human _ hands and mouth will just have to do...”


	2. Day 23: Self-Sacrifice, Smoking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Sybok the bad influence or is it Michael? Either way, Sarek's not having it with their shenanigans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael x Sybok - happy, consensual, stress-relieving sex!
> 
> Warnings: Drug use. Pseudo-incest. 
> 
> Michael is also 17/18, while Sybok is 19/20 here.

When T’Khut is at his fullest, Michael slips from her bed and climbs the nah’ru between the balconies to the roof. There she finds Sybok lounging on his back. 

As she approaches, her nose catches a familiar scent traveling on the evening breeze. Gal-en-du’un is almost sweet - like ripe Terran cherries. For Vulcans, without the exposure from regular use, it causes intense hallucinations that last for hours. But for Sybok, who burns through a bushel every other month, it does not matter. 

She watches as well-practiced rings of smoke rise from his pursed lips and dissipate beneath T’Khut’s golden light. His wild, curly hair looks like a halo, fanned out around his head. Michael flops down beside him, pulling her nightgown around her knees. Sybok smiles around his roll perched between his lips. 

“Give me some.” 

Sybok waves her away, smoking billowing from his nose like the Jabberwocky. “You should be in bed.” 

“There’s no sleep for me. I’m in my penultimate year at the Learning Center, studying for the VSA entrance exam,” Michael counters, holding out her hand. With a chuckle, he passes the Gal-en-du’un to her, watching as she places it against her lips and draws in its cherried smoke. Michael shudders pleasantly. It hits her bloodstream instantly, liquifying her body down to every sinew and fiber. “By Surak, I needed this...”

“I don’t know why you wanna go to the VSA,” he mumbles. “It’s full of _Vulcans_. You should go study on Earth or Andor or even fucking Q'onoS. Seriously, literally anywhere else other than this rock…” 

She passes the Gal-ed-du’un back to him. Sybok pulls on it until it’s a burning nub, which he flicks away. He fishes a second one from his nightshirt’s pocket and offers it over. Michael holds it aloft as he lights it, shielding the flame from a passing breeze. She takes several puffs to keep it lit.

“I want to get into the Expedition Group.” Michael pauses, lifting her chin to send a pillar of smoke into the night air. “I want a career in Xenoanthropology. And that’s the only place that will let me do it.”

Sybok shakes his head. “They may never accept you.”

“I’ll make them.” 

“I am sure you will…” He reaches over, fingers running along the length of her calf before he lifts the hem of her gown back over her knees. “You’re wearing white this time.” 

She furrows her brow at the statement. The color has no significance in Vulcanian culture; though sex is an extremely private matter, it is not “dirty.” Their people understand that sex among sentient species can also serve as a form of social lubricant. Even documented that their ancestor Solkar succumbed to Zefram Cochrane’s charms on multiple occasions. (Only for the sake of diplomacy, of course.)

“Is that bad?” she asks as he palms her knee, gently rubbing his thumb across her skin. Michael parts her legs a bit more as he reaches for her. He shakes his head, fingertips tracing her pantyline along her inner thigh. 

“No, they look _real_ good on you…”

It is business as usual then.

She lays down, the tile oddly comfortable against her back, as Sybok positions himself between her splayed legs. His kisses tickle as he places them along her inner thigh - each one more delicate than the last. He reaches his target, bumping the tip of his nose against her clit. Playfully, he nips at her over her underwear - his lips teasing, searching. 

Driven by her muted sigh, his finger slips under her panties to stroke at her folds. Between this and the attention he gives her womanhood, Michael feels herself growing slick. She moans softly as Sybok sinks his finger into her sex. Slowly, gingerly, he pushes it in and out, never stopping the attention he gives to her above. His efforts lead to a crude but hypnotic squelching sound that fills the air, a testament to his skill. Sybok slips in another finger, picking up his pace. He suckles her clit until the fabric is soaked through. Michael feels herself melting...

Sybok pulls her panties off and rests them to the side. Without ceremony, he fastened his mouth to her sex like starving krovill as his suckles. Michael feels her orgasm building. Her toes curl, her calves ache, her thighs tremble as Sybok’s highly-enthusiastic ministrations continue. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming; her body rising in arc as she pushes her mound against his unceasing tongue. Sybok holds onto her hips, savoring the pleasure pouring from her as she comes.

Michael falls flat, body shaking. She can feel the blood returning to her head; the stars her friend made her see giving way to the ones above. As Sybok pulls away, she sees herself glistening on his lips and chin.

And then, Sarek’s voice calls to them: “Sybok…? Michael…?” 

“Shit…!” Sybok hisses, scrubbing her from his face. As Michael reaches for her panties, a sudden wind takes them. She watches as they flutter over the edge of the roof and down towards Amanda’s section of the garden. “We’ll get them later…!”

Her legs are still weak. Sybok hoists Michael onto her feet and straightens her gown just before Sarek appears. 

“What are you two doing up here _again_ ?” he asks, stalking towards them. Even in his evening gown dotted with Terran cacti, he looks intimidating. Then, he stops and begins to sniff the air like a chkariya seeking harvest grain. To their horror, Sarek finds the still smouldering bud of Gal-en-du’un at his slippered feet. He stomps on it, dragging it underneath the ball of his foot until it is nothing but an ashened smear across the roof tiles. Sarek _glares_ at them: “To whom did _that_ belong?”

From her periphery, Michael sees Sybok move to speak. But she steps in front of him before he can do so: “It was mine.” Both Sarek and Sybok look at Michael with surprise. She swallows the knot building in her throat. “I was smoking. Sybok found me here because he heard something on the roof...” 

Sarek’s eyes dart between her and his eldest. Neither flinches, their expressions cool under his piercing gaze. He sighs. “Michael, lying is a human failing. Do not lie to me.”

“I am not lying,” she lies, her heart beating loudly in her ears. “A human tourist offered it to me as thanks for escorting him around the Off-Worlder Exchange Market. It helps me to...relax. I am sorry...”

Sarek crosses over to her, resting his large hands on her tiny shoulders. Michael averts her gaze as he looks down at her.

“Using controlled substances is illogical as they can be detrimental to one’s health. Accepting them from a complete stranger demonstrates further poor judgment,” he chides. “You will not accompany Amanda to Lake Yuron for your school break. Instead, you will spend that time with me, reviewing the basics of meditation and foundations of logic.” After a gentle squeeze, he releases her. “To bed. Now. Both of you.”

Sybok and Michael march toward the nah’ru covered lattice, heads bowed.

~~~

The next morning, her underwear is nowhere to be found. And they had to abort their search, as Amanda rushes them off to the Learning Center.

By Surak, what would she do if her guardians found them? What would _Sarek_ do?

Thankfully, the school day passes quickly. As Michael rushes from the building, she finds Spock standing beside their father near the entrance. 

“You are ‘grounded,’ Michael,’” he explains as he practically frog-hops her to their transport. The tips of her ears grow hot as several of her classmates look on smugly. “And you will remain under supervision until I see improvement in your behavior.”

The door opens and her little brother climbs inside without so much as a backward glance, no doubt settling himself in the rearmost seat. Sarek climbs inside after her. They takeoff without another word, until they pass over the VSA main campus.

“Are we not stopping for Sybok?” Michael calls out. 

Without missing a beat, Sarek answers: “No, he has secured living quarters of his own.”

“F-for what r-reason…?” 

“Your _brother_ does not wish to observe the rules of my home. Therefore, he decided to leave it.” Sarek’s matter-of-fact tone sent a shiver down her spine. Michael feels a cold sweat building on the small of her back. She looks back to Spock, but her little brother has busied himself with drawing on his PADD again. 

They land and Sarek exits first, making sure their vehicle is secured. As Michael undoes her restraints, Spock passes by and drops something onto her lap. 

“Fools for siblings...” he mutters before slipping through the door. 

Michael looks down at her lap. Her cheeks flush instantly. There, laying across her legs, are her panties.


	3. Day 31: Showdown, Costume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarek just wants to do his job and then some half-naked weirdo shows up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit lighter than the other chapters. More whump than kink.
> 
> Warnings: Implied child abuse, depictions of blood, assassination attempt

Ambassador Sarek’s well-attended speech about interstellar species cooperation does not end in applause. Rather, it ends in an ear-splitting bang as an inter dimensional portal explodes into existence beside him on the assembly stage. 

He does not flee. Equally entranced by the whirling pool of crimson light, he and his audience watch as someone steps across its threshold. The portal blinks away, leaving them with a strange new guest.

Immediately, he (and surely everyone else) notices three things about her: 

First, her head and face are enshrouded by a helm, shaped like the head of a le’matya. The helm is black with no visible visor or breath apparatus. It is almost as if someone poured a mold over her head and left it to set.

Second, she is nearly naked: twin swatches of a sleek, gunmetal material are molded over her firm, full breasts, while another panel runs from the flat, planes beneath her navel, between her legs and rear, and ends just above the small of her back. As she strides towards the podium, Sarek can see that her palms and soles are covered as well. 

And third, on her right hip hangs a sword that is nearly as tall as her. As she reaches for it, Sarek admires its resemblance to the legendary S’task of S’harien - finely crafted, sleek. But, ultimately he fails to realize that he was only able to make this connection because she had freed it from its sheath.

Thankfully, his security detail has already surrounded the stage. His clan bodyguards - Ahn and B’aht - step in front of him, their phasers raised. 

And then, the stranger roars: 

“Tev-tor, aushfa!”

Before anyone can blink, she leaps forward and makes quick work of his guards, her blade slicing through their weapons with practiced ease, rendering them unconscious with calculated strikes from its hilt. The assassin steps over their bodies as she raises her sword in Sarek’s direction. 

He ducks but her blade is quicker - taking away a slither of his ear tip with it. As Sarek rolls to avoid another blow, he stumbles. He looks back and sees her foot on the hem of his robe. As the assassin moves to strike him, Ahn appears and catches her in the side with a well-placed kick, knocking her across the stage. She tumbles helplessly until she crashes against the podium, which splinters apart on impact.

The assassin grunts, pulling a piece of wood lodged deep in her side. The heady scent of copper blood is thick on Sarek’s tongue. 

“Sir, we must go!” Ahn shouts, half-dragging him by his arm. But Sarek stays put. He does not understand why he does it. Logic and self-preservation dictate he should flee and leave this fight to them. But he stays fixed in place, watching as the masked woman, stunned by the blow, she struggles to stand. 

And then, he sees it: rivulets of verdant blood seeping between her fingers as she tries to stem the wound. 

_A Romulan_? he ponders.

But then B’aht fires, hitting their attacker in the face. Her head snaps backwards from the force and the helm disperses instantly into a cloud of sparkling light. Their attacker stumbles hard but remains on her feet. As she lowers her head, her face fully visible, the room seems to stop all together.

“S-sir, is that-”

“Master Sarek, I do not understand. She cannot-”

He cannot hear them over the beating of his heart. As he stares at her and all he can see is the face of his darling human daughter, framed by a pair of pointy ears and cranial ridges. 

Logically, it cannot be his Michael as she is human and this Michael is not. His Michael is safe and sound in their family home, helping his wife prepare their evening meal, and not trying to bisect him in front of his peers. 

She is a weapon, forged from hard-earned muscle and even harder-earned scars that run all over her young body like the stripes of the le’matya she emulates.

But most of all, his daughter never displayed naked hatred in her eyes for him as this one does.

“Aushfa!” she snarls, her tiny fangs bared. She moves to raise her sword but it is knocked from her hands by another volley of phaser fire. She manages to evade the rest, retreating to the rear of the stage, and up a ladder that leads to the catwalks. 

Against all logic, Sarek ignores his bodyguards’ orders to evacuate, choosing to pursue his daughter’s doppelganger instead. 

Something drips onto his cheek as she scrambles over the last rung. Sarek touches his face and his fingers come away wet with more of her blood. He reaches the catwalk, the scent is so thick, it almost overwhelms him.

Sarek spots the other Michael leaning heavily against the railing - her waist, hips, and legs coated with her verdant blood. 

“Michael, you must surrender,” he commands as he approaches her. He holds his hands as if coaxing a frightful sehlat pup. “...we must tend to your wounds or you will die. Michael, you must stop…” 

But before she can react, Ahn and B’aht have her - one capturing her wrists, while the other administers a nerve pinch.

~~~

Vulcan has no prisons. So, they hold the girl in a secure room at the Vulcan Medical Institute’s psychiatric facility. In a week, a VSA team of mind-meld specialists and astrophysicists determine the teenager is from a parallel dimension, fellow a telepath, and most importantly, not a threat.

In fact, when the Defense Force had investigated the incident at the Embassy's assembly hall, they discovered not a single person had been killed. Injured, yes. Killed, no. He was impressed as that only spoke to her incredible skill.

This is how Sarek finds himself in her hospital room, his ear tip fully regenerated, sharing a cup of spiced tea with his would-be assassin, while her nurse takes and records her vitals. 

He finds the other Michael Burnham rather _adorable._ Sarek chuckles inwardly as she goes crossed-eyed attempting to follow the movements of a tricorder as a nurse uses it to examine the ridges on her brow. Finished, he types for a full two minutes on his PADD before turning and leaving the room.

The doppelganger tilts her head curiously. “What is a...Romulan? It was in his notes...”

“A race that once shared this planet with us,” he explains, impressed with her keen eye. “They split from us centuries ago over political and philosophical differences. The only aspect we have in common is genetic compatibility.”

“Oh, such an event never took place. We are all simply Vulcans. Well, half in my case…” She pouts cutely in contemplation, fingers tapping on her mug. “Why do you call me Michael?” 

Sarek nods. “That is the name of my human daughter, whom you resemble. She was named after her human father.”

“Interesting,” she replies with an uneven smile. “My mother’s first husband was named Michael.” He notes her hands start to shake. Gingerly, Sarek gathers their mugs, stands and brings them over to the sink. The sounds of him rinsing them and setting them to dry filling the silence.

“Perhaps, you should rest. We can-.”

“She was a Terran scientist, studying metallurgy of the Qowat Milat,” she says, cutting him off. “...Minister Sarek - _my_ Sarek _-_ saw her one day and decided that he had to have her _._ So, he killed her husband the next morning, then married her later that evening.” He turns to look at her then. The other Michael sighs and flops back into her pillows. Her eyes are glassy as she trains her gaze on the expanse of the white ceiling overhead. “...I cannot go back…”

Sarek agrees. She cannot go back. He would never even entertain the idea. It would be illogical to send a young girl back to her abusers.

_Aufusha_ is what she called him when they met. And after reading the literal tome her caregivers compiled that listed the indescribable horrors she was forced to endure by his abusive counterpart, Sarek understood why she called him an _animal_. 

Vulcans do not normally abide by violence. However, if given the chance to step through that portal, Sarek is more than certain he would snap that man’s neck without a second thought...


	4. Day 20: Concussion, Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael Burnham receives a love confession and decides to do something about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is nice, consensual sex in this chapter! Platonic love that blossoms into romantic love. Good vibes!

Suvoj knows that what he feels is genuine and not Shon-ha'lock as his father claims. He is not choked by jealousy or possessiveness or a need for territorial violence. He does not burn to see her with others. When he looks at her, he feels a sense of admiration for a being of great intelligence and even greater determination. 

But he is painfully shy, even for a Vulcan. His taciturn nature leaves him virtually friendless and only serves as a source of frustration for his parents and instructors. So, how can he possibly speak to Michael Burnham when he could barely speak at all?

Logically, he finds the one person who he believes may help him. When Suvoj hears the closing day chimes, he races to the courtyard and lays in wait. In all fairness, he nearly misses his target as he is rather small. And in a metaphorical sea of Vulcan children sporting the same uniform and bowl cuts, it only makes it that much more difficult.

Suvoj steps into his path and (thankfully) Spock stops short. He raises a ta’al but Spock continues to stare at him with a look of polite indifference (as all Vulcans do.). “What do you want?”

( _Rude._ )

“I...want… I w-would like to speak with you about… y-your sister…”

“What is there to speak about?” Spock replies, tilting his head. “She is an illogical, emotional creature. To be perfectly candid, our time would be better spent not speaking about her at all.”

( _Ouch_.) 

The younger Vulcan sidesteps him and half-jogs to the transporter pad. Suvoj realizes that Michael is standing there, waiting for her brother. And, worse yet, she has been watching them. 

Though his hand shakes, Suvoj raises a ta’al. 

And to his delight, Michael returns it.

~~~

Eventually, Suvoj finds his courage. He lends Michael his spare stylus when T’Lan takes hers before an important exam. He rescues her uniform when some of the others tosses it into a tree during their physical education training. He volunteers to be her lab partner after Sofol attempts to sabotage her work.

Michael does reciprocate. But whether it is from obligation or genuine gratitude - Suvoj does not care. To be honest, he expects nothing in return but she trusts him; she shares aspects of her life with him, all of which he appreciates.

They graduate from the Learning Center and the VSA, from both of which, Michael Burnham receives the highest marks and highest honors in their year. She goes onto the Vulcan Expedition Group to pursue her preferred career choice - Xenoanthropology. 

It is incredibly logical that Michael, having been raised among non-humans all her life, would dedicate her life to connect and understand with them even more. He is satisfied that her childhood trauma with the Klingons and the hardships she faced on Vulcan did not crush this part of her.

Suvoj asks Michael for her comm frequency and permission to contact her.

“Of course,” is all she says.

That night, Michael tells him that she will leave a week after graduation for her assignment on Denobula. Suvoj wishes her much success. He will stay on Vulcan, working as a geothermal dynamics engineer. And, though their destinies may prevent them from ever meeting again, it would be ideal if they would continue to communicate.

Michael agrees.

So, it goes on like this for some time. Their correspondences to each other grow a little longer with each day. 

But a year passes and Suvoj’s parents become more insistent about his marriage prospects. 

“You will be twenty-eight in only a few more years and then your first Pon Farr will be upon you,” his mother scolds him over tea. It is an inconvenient routine of hers, to show up to his Shi’Kahr apartments for midday tea, demand that Suvoj marry, and leave. “Please consider the bondmates that your father has spent a great deal of effort in choosing for you.”

He does not. 

When she leaves, he accepts a position as a mining and geological engineer for the Expedition Group outpost on Xahea. He lets them know he will be there within three days, if not sooner. 

And then, Suvoj opens a message to Michael. He asks her if she wants him to bring her anything from Vulcan and if she had time for tea after his orientation. 

She replies almost instantly:

_Normally, I would only request your safe arrival. However, I believe some gespar rolls would make a satisfying addition to our tea time. Safe travels, Su-kam..._

~~~

The V.E.G. Xahean outpost is a veritable maze. The attendant walks so briskly, even he has to jog to keep up. And when she stops short, after so many twists and turns, Suvoj hops like an aylak to keep from crashing into her and dropping his luggage.

“Your quarters are here, sir,” she says, gesturing to a door marked 364. Without ceremony, she rests out a keycard and a PADD on top of his suitcase. With a distracted ta’al, she walks away and is gone.

( _Okay then…_ )

His room is more than sufficient: There is space to meditate and to entertain guests. There is some very Xahean decor. A large iron-wrought statue of their planetary animal sits atop a storage closet in the kitchenette. There are some interesting paintings of local flora and fauna hanging on the walls as well. 

Suvoj decides to unpack. As he rests his burden at the foot of his bed, the door chimes. 

“Enter.”

It opens and reveals Michael, standing in the hall, holding a basket of Xahean fruits.

“For your safe arrival,” she said as she steps in and places it on the kitchenette’s counter. “Do you require assistance?”

He nods. “Humans do say many hands make light work.” 

After they finish unpacking, she helps him prepare for tea. From his periphery, he watches her expertly slice some tolik-like fruit. She fans it out with equal skill on two simple plates before adding the gespar rolls he brought with him. It all seems so _domestic_ , as if Suvoj and her had been well-practiced living companions for years... 

And then, the entire room begins to shake. One of the plates Michael prepared falls from the counter and shatters against the floor. The cabinets are thrown open, their contents about to pour down onto Michael. Instinctively, Suvoj dives, moves to shield her. Then, something strikes the top of his head. 

_Hard_. 

As stars swim across his vision, he hears Michael’s voice - like a faint, distant echo - as she calls to him. It goes all black. And there is nothing for quite a while. 

~~~

A cool, soothing sensation yanks him from the depths of unconsciousness. Suvoj cracks open a bleary eye and finds Michael meticulously folding used compresses on her skirted lap. He tries to shift his head but finds it incredibly painful. A soft grunt of pain escapes his lips. 

Michael sets her work aside. She quickly rises and stands by his side. Her face seeking but soft as she gazes down at him.

“You are awake.” Though she does her best to keep a neutral tone, Suvoj hears the relief in her voice. “Please do not move. You were severely injured when that statue fell onto your head. The doctor said you have swelling in your brain.” She reaches for a button by his shoulder and presses it. Gently, he takes hold of her wrist. Michael starts but does not pull away. She looks down at him - brow furrowed, her round eyes even rounder when surprised.

“By Surak, I love you…” he says. And then he adds, undeterred by her increasing expression of alarm: “I love you very much, Michael Burnham.”

She sputters, her lips fluttering, eyes (somehow) even wider. 

“Y-you do not know what you are saying, Suvoj,” she protests. “You have a serious concussion. So, allow me go get the doctor and-”

“I do,” he protests. Slowly, he releases her and holds out his hand. Michael stares at it for a moment, before gingerly intertwining her fingers with his own. His feelings flow gently into her through their contact. “I do know very well what I am saying. And I feel it too. And what I feel is love; the very same love as I have felt since I met you as a boy.”

Suddenly, the door opens and their connection is broken. Michael steps backwards, clutching her hands against her chest as the doctor and nurses rush in to examine him.

“I...must contact your family and let them know you are awake,” she says as she retreats. Michael lingers on the doorway. She looks over her shoulder, a small smile on her lips. “I will visit again very soon.”

And she does. Michael visits him every day until his release. Even after Suvoj recovers in quarters and finally begins his assignment. And especially after she accepts his offer of courtship...

~~~

They are bonded barely six months after that. 

Their parents see them off on their “honeymoon.”

“I understand the need for privacy during this time,” his mother says to both he and Michael. He is grateful that she is satisfied with their union. However, Suvoj is unsure if it is because he married an heir to the S’chn T’gai clan or because he married at all. “However, you _will_ honor _Vulcanian_ conventions and remain on Vulcan for a full year upon your return.”

“We want grandchildren,” Amanda states plainly.

Sarek and his father say nothing, but nod in agreement.

They say their goodbyes and travel to Risa, where Michael has secured a private bungalow for them. Suvoj is glad as she all but tackles him as soon as the attendant closes the door behind him. 

The human concept of “virginity” is illogical, and that their females should “protect it” until their wedding night is even more so. Mating is one of the purest forms of connection and to deny that to someone because of their gender is an affront. Either a mature sentient being chooses to engage in sexual activity or they do not. Their perceived societal worth is not impacted by performing or refraining from the act of consensual sex.

Suvoj loves Michael no matter what. And how can he not? He has witnessed her growth, her tears, her mercy, her kindness. It would be illogical for any being to let her go unloved and he intends to show how much he loves her at this very moment. 

When his tongue entangles with her own and he finds she tastes sweet like Terran mint. The primordial beast within wants to devour her, so he settles for ravaging her mouth. Like a hungry sehlat pup, he suckles her lips, her tongue until he pulls moans from her.

Suvoj finds the control to let her pull away. Michael’s full lips seem ever fuller as she pants - her eyes hooded with a longing that he desires to satiate.

Her hips roll as he moves slowly onto her throat, to her collarbone, to her navel, to her sex - suckling and licking every inch of her. Michael’s skin is soft like Androrian silk against his tongue. Each stroke he administers draws a new, pleasing sound from her lips. Suvoj craves her as he laps up the love that pours from within her; it is salty and satisfying as he pushes his tongue in as deep it can go. He swallows everything eagerly. When Michael shudders and arcs, he does not relent, feeding on her sex greedily until she collapses into a boneless heap against their bed.

Carefully, Suvoj climbs back over her and presses his manhood’s tip against her thoroughly prepared entrance.

“S-Suvoj...w-wait,” he hears her say. And he does. “We -  _ I _ have never engaged...in this specific sex act before.” 

( _ Oh, right…! _ )

He nods. He would never do anything to hurt her. Suvoj repositions himself to lie beside her on his back. “This way is best. You can control your... _ descent _ according to your own physical comfort.”

Michael laughs. He cannot help but smile a little too. She reaches for something from her side table. A telltale faint crackling of plastic makes his own stomach clench in eager anticipation.

He watches her as she places the condom between her pursed lips. Gingerly, she aligns its top with the tip of his manhood and swallows him as far as she can go. Suvoj grips the sheets between pumps of her mouth as her tongue helps to move the condom down and around his shaft. Michael removes herself from his member and rolls the rest down to the base with her fingers. 

She climbs on top, taking him to her hand all too gently, positioning his head against her the entrance of her human sex. Michael gazes down at him with those big, round eyes that he adores, she asks:

“Are...you certain?” 

He is no longer that painfully shy boy alone in the school yard. She is no longer the outcast girl taking refuge in the library.

“Taluhk nash-veh ...” is all he says to her, as Suvoj places his hands on her hips.

“Taluhk nash-veh k'dular u' muhl...” she replies, tears forming in the corner of her eye. Michael sinks onto him, taking him in inch-by-inch until she is fully seated in his lap. He finds her tight but not uncomfortably so. Carefully, he reaches up and wipes away the sweat gathered on her brow. He rests his hand softly against her cheek, allowing their mutual love to flow as she rolls her hips...


	5. Day 15: Squeeze, Manhandling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael sucks at gym. So, T'Pring decides to help her out (sort of but not really.).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lesbian sex/sexual activities. T'Pring is aggressive BUT it is consensual.
> 
> Michael and T'Pring are like 16/17 here.

Michael hates physical education. Not only is it her worst subject, but her classmates also take immense pleasure in tossing her around like a tuber root during their Ke-tarya training.

The instructors order them to pair up. Michael immediately hurries over to Suvoj, but before she can reach him, T’Lan steps into her path. She hates T’Lan - from her hayalit-like teeth to her noresehlat-like toes. They glare at each other while her bully waves her only friend away like an insect.

“I suggest a change in partners,” T’Lan titters, her tone slithering like a pandree. “So, Suvoj, you should join your _own kind_ for today.”

She grabs Michael by her uniform collar and practically drags her away. Suddenly, T’Lan tosses her so roughly that she stumbles onto the mat, face first. Michael’s jaw painfully cracks against the floor. 

“Eyes on your opponent…” she hears T’Lan mocking from from above. But this is the only warning she gets right before the girl tries to stomp on her face. Michael manages to roll away in time, but T’Lan is quicker. She grunts painfully as she is kicked in her side and winded temporarily. Her bully moves to stand over her, leaning in close enough to smell the plomeek on her breath: “Have I broken something, Burnham?” 

Angry, Michael rabbit punches T’Lan in her smug face. She lets out a cry like a wounded quattil, tripping backward over her feet, her rump hitting the floor with a thud. She clutches at her bloodied nose, her eyes seething with anger just beneath the inky surface. 

But before she can react next, T’Lan gasps and slumps forward. Michael blinks and realizes that T’Pring - _the_ T’Pring - stands behind her bully’s now unconscious form, with her elegant fingers poised in that tell-tale pinch grip. 

“T’Lan fights like a Klingon...” she purrs. “No finesse, all _brute_ strength...”

“You will be disciplined for this, T’Pring,” the instructor scolds her as another aide drags T’lan over to a corner. “That is an illegal maneuver.”

To no one’s surprise, and with a casual toss of her long, dark hair, T’Pring objects: “Logically, there are no ‘illegal’ maneuvers in a fight. You do what you must to survive it.” She raises a meticulously groomed brow, as if daring this fully grown Vulcan man to challenge her.

The instructor looks like he wants to argue, but he sighs and walks away instead. T’Pring strides over to Michael, who watches her move with the grace of a sa-te kru. When she offers her hand, she scrambles to take it.

“Perhaps Suus Mahna or V’Shan would better suit you,” she suggests, helping her to her feet. “Their applications resemble that of the Terran martial arts of judo or aikido, which are much more suitable for humans. They are much more suitable for your tinier, slower human frame...”

Dumbfounded by her beauty (and a little disoriented from almost having her ribs cracked by T’Lan), Michael simply nods. 

T’Pring tilts her beautiful head, letting her curtain of hair swing gently. “Then, you will spend this coming cycle break with me at my family compound.” As she turns to leave, Michael nearly gasps as T’Pring runs her finger across the middle of her sweaty palm before she lets go. 

~~~

Michael soon finds herself standing in front of some large stone gates, while Sarek leaves her in the wake of his transporter’s exhaust. They were all too eager for Spock’s sister to spend some quality time with his future wife.

“Best behavior,” Sarek orders her through their bond. 

The gates part and Michael is swarmed immediately by several Vulcans. All but one take her luggage and thank-you gift (orchids) and scurry off towards a giant house in the distance. The remaining servan, whom Michael believes is their leader, waves at her to follow him. She notices that there is very little topiary or trees or greenery of any kind. Instead, it is all ornately rendered sand mandalas and organized stone structures. 

In the distance, Michael spots a servant dragging a rake behind them as they draw concentric circles in the red soil. As they continue up the ridiculously long walk, the head-servant breaks his silence and informs Michael that T’Prings parents are gone and will not return home until next month. 

“They would leave their daughter alone for that long?” she asks, jogging a bit to keep up.

“She is not alone, as _we_ are here,” the servant counters. “But Lady T’Pring is more than self-sufficient.”

And that is all he said about that.

While Spock or Sybok might not appreciate it, she was glad that her family shared evening meal at every opportunity. Even when they were away, they would call. Michael perceived that this was not the case for her future sister-in-law...

~~~

T’Pring is a very capable instructor. For the first hour, she teaches Michael katas for Suus Mahna and V’Shan, positioning her limbs, hands and feet, and helping to guide her movements for each maneuver. They then move on to the “application” portion of the lesson. Michael struggles against her Vulcanian strength and ends up on her back so many times, she loses count. 

After what she believed was the eightieth, Michael punches the mat - giving into her human emotions - as her frustrations reach their peak.

“You are angry,” she hears T’Pring comment. “For what reason?”

“I am simply _not_ strong enough…” she grumbles. “...and if I cannot meet the hand-to-hand combat requirements for the Expedition Group, I will be rejected…”

“Is _that_ why you came here today?” T’Pring asks, her fingers entangled in her perfect ponytail. “You truly wish to join that archaic group?”

“At least I have a goal…!” Michael returns, heatedly. “Don’t you have something you want to work towards? Or is marrying my brother and stealing the S’chn T’gai Estate the only thing you want?”

And then, T’Pring tackles her, her limbs entangling with Michael’s as they wrestle on the floor. Eventually, she managed to pin Michael beneath her. T’Pring yanks her top open, fully exposing her breasts. Michael yelps and tries to cover herself, but the other girl is faster. T’Pring grabs both of her wrists with one hand. With the other, she cups her each of her breasts, giving them experimental taps. She does this a few more times, watching them swing and bounce with each contact.

“...they are warm, soft…”

“W-what did you expect them to feel like then…?”

T’Pring tilts her beautiful head in thought, her hand still fondling her breasts: “ Cold. Slimy. Soft from rot. Like old tolik fruit.”

“Excuse me!?” 

“I am glad they are not. I have seen how you sometimes stare at me - like a hungry le’matya stalking aylak. Do not deny it…” 

Michael protests that T’Pring was that completely backwards: it is _T’Pring_ who sometimes looks like she wants to devour Michael whole, but then the other girl leans down and stymies her with a kiss. She can hear her laughter through their touch. T’Pring moves her hungry mouth over her nipple, suckling at it like a newborn. Michael grunts at the warm, wet sensation of the surrounding her sensitive flesh as T’Pring’s skillful tongue teases her nipples. The room fills with the sound of her sucking, echoes off the walls until she pulls away, leaving them stiff and hard against the cool air.

Without warning, T’Pring pulls her pants down around her thighs. She cups Michael’s sex over her underwear with equally skillful, experimentally rubbing and squeezing her outer labia, relishing in the feel of plush, yielding flesh. 

“I wonder if humans possess similar _sacred_ female anatomy…” 

Before Michael can even ask what she even means, the pad of T’Prings thumb finds its way over her clitoris. It circles gently, reverently, each pass earning itself a small buck of her hips. Michael can feel her panties growing damper with every stroke. She slips her own hand beneath T’Pring’s waistband ( **_Of course_ ** _she is not wearing underwear…_ ), her own hand rubbing gently against her sex. 

“I'm glad you don’t have any teeth,” Michael teases. 

“Perhaps, if you go deep, you will find them…” 

T’Pring recaptures her lips as she begins to grind against her hand.  Encouraged, Michael slides a finger inside of T’Pring, relishing in its sleek warmth. T’Pring returns the favor, causing Michael to hiss at the sudden (but welcomed) fullness. They lie there, pleasuring each other, until the entire room is nothing but the sounds of stroking slicked flesh and soft, panting gasps.

Michael clenches around the Vulcan girl’s fingers as she comes. T’Pring follows soon after, the walls of her vagina contracting so tightly that Michael feels as if her fingers would snap off at the knuckle.

~~~

In the afterglow, T’Pring’s hands remain on her skin, touching her inner thighs as she places drawn out kisses against her nape. Michael sighs and T’Pring moves lay fully beside her, resting her chin on her chest.

“I think I prefer you to your brother. I find Spock boring,” she hears her confess without provocation. T'Pring's breath tickling against her chin. “He performs as opposed to just... _being_.”

“Being a child of Sarek _and_ Amanda is not easy,” she argues. “He only ‘performs’ because both sides demand he choose a half as opposed to letting him just be a whole.”

To her complete and utter shock, T’Pring _laughs out loud._ Michael is angry. She shoves her aside and rolls on top, pinning her, but she bucks upwards and backwards, forcing her off. Michael manages to roll away. And as they both leap onto their feet, each girl takes a fighting stance.

“Show me what you have learned, Burnham.”

This time it is different. Michael feels no fear. She dodges and ducks each oncoming blow. When the opportunity comes, she grabs T’Pring’s wrist, quickly stepping behind her. Michael yanks her arm back and upwards before delivering a vicious kick to the back of her knee. As the girl’s legs buckle, Michael steps firmly on the middle of her stooped back and pushes hard, sending her stumbling across the mat.

T’Pring tumbles across the mat, until she slides to a stop. After a few seconds, she pushes herself onto her hands, a green bruise rapidly spreading on her pale cheek.

“I wonder if you would fight like that if you know I wanted to be with another,” T’Pring comments as Michael helps her to her feet. 

“The entire class already knows you are with Stonn…”

“And now with you too, yes?” 

Michael freezes. She and Spock still are not on the best of terms. Of course, part of her wanted it. Her fearlessness, her ambition, her intelligence, her defiance, were things that made her beautiful. But she cannot hurt Spock again. Michael shakes her head, her desire for Spock’s forgiveness superseding her desire for T’Pring.

With a sigh, T’Pring picks up Michael’s uniform from the ground and tosses it to her before grabbing her own. They dress in silence. As soon as they finish, the door opens and the servant from earlier steps into the room. 

“Your refreshments are ready. Perhaps a- “ he pauses, giving a not too-subtle sniff. “- sonic shower would be best, first.” He leaves them again. T’Pring tips her dark head towards Michael and she swears she sees a faint smile on her Vulcanian lips.

“I assume that showering together would be improbable, correct?” she offers, her dark eyes filled with mischief.

“Unfortunately, it is,” grumbles Michael.


	6. Day 3: Spank, Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freud would have a field day with Sarek's dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dream sex/sexual fantasies. Sort-of pseudo-incest.

Vulcans pride themselves as masters of their emotions, and Sarek is a master among masters. He meditates thrice a day, practices Sha’Mura at every dawn, maintains a strict vegetarian diet, drinks rarely to indulge his human wife’s traditions, and he only consumes chocolate twice a year (for Amanda’s birthday and for the Terran Saint Valentine’s Day).

And yet, there are times when Sarek finds himself to be weak.

Even with their decades-long established martial bond, whenever Amanda is away from his side for more than a day, his dreams lure him to certain  _ baser _ instincts.

And tonight is no exception. His wife is on Earth attending dual linguists conferences and will not be back for at least two weeks.

When sleep takes him for the night, Sarek dreams of Amanda riding him. Her tear-dropped breasts bouncing with each roll of her hips; her soft, inviting belly, marked with brown lines that remind him of the he gave her which was their son, ripples and folds with each thrust; her dimpled flesh on her thighs, hips, and ass beg to be worshipped, squeezed.

Amanda throws her head back in pleasure, showing Sarek the beautiful column of her throat. The primordial creature in him wants to sink itself fangs in her neck - to mark her, to own her.

Suddenly, where his fingers touch her supple flesh, a rich, golden umber begins to bleed out from the point of contact, consuming every inch of her cream colored skin. Her stomach grows flatter, her waist more tapered, her arms and legs thinner but defined, her breasts smaller but more pert, and lastly, the beautiful lines that mark Amanda’s body begin to fade from sight.

He does not recognize this new woman until she leans over him. And then Sarek knows her - that sharp jawline, those full lips, those round, brown eyes full of concern.

“Father…!” Michael gasps, her sex too warm around his own. “...you feel so good…!”

And then, Sarek wakes up.

~~~

Sarek finds that his nightgown front is stained by his own nocturnal emission. He is most irritated by this as such a thing has not happened since his early adolescence. And even more troubling, this was caused by his carnal subconscious thoughts about his own daughter!

Of course, Sarek does not nor would ever engage in intercourse with Michael. Like Spock, she is bonded to him as a parent and child. He chases these lingering thoughts away with the coldest sonic shower he can tolerate, making sure to scrub every bit of skin rigorously.

Morning meal is only slightly awkward. Michael prepares their breakfast with Spock. She greets him and places a plate of gespar rolls, sliced tolik fruit, plain Mu, and spiced tea in front of him.

“Mother called,” he hears her say as she settles into her own seat. “She will not return for a month. She wishes to spend some post-conference time with her family and friends…”

“I understand,” is all Sarek says to her before starting in on his own meal. 

~~~

Every time Sarek attempts to sleep, he finds himself immediately under Michael’s lithe, youthful body, rutting into her like a wild aylak during the spawning season. His only goal is to fill her to her womb to the brim with his seed and when he does he awakes, violent and sticky.

Sarek begins to hate himself. He avoids his daughter, which makes it even worse. 

So, he decides that he will stay awake until he can reunite with Amanda again. Their bond is strong but she has closed it off temporarily so as to not flood him with the emotions of reuniting with her friends and family. He sighs, pondering if one day, her dutiful consideration may be the death of him.

Vulcans can go with little to no sleep for days and Sarek can endure much longer. But after seven straight days, even he finds himself fatigued.

Exhausted, he takes refuge in his study chair. There is a soft knock at his door and his son appears, holding a tray with his evening tea and little something else - several dark chocolate bonbons.

“For your insomnia, father,” is all his son says before he leaves. 

He swallows thickly against the knot building in his throat. If even Spock - who rarely acknowledges him at all - is worried about him, then he must consider this path. Without further hesitation, Sarek devours all three bonbons and gulps down his tea.

At first, his dreams are a deluge of illogical subconscious thought: he eats the pages he prepared for an upcoming speech; a norsehlat shares plomeek soup with him on the peak of Mt. Seleya; his Andorian aide wears Klingon garb and speaks in Orion riddles.

But then, Michael appears, wearing a Learning Center uniform made for her fully grown body. The wide, hooded collar reveals the top of her well-formed bust; the dress jacket’s hem is entirely too short, hitting her thigh just below their meeting point. She carries in one a hand a large, flat wood paddle of some kind, which she waggles in his direction playfully.

“Father, have you been dreaming about me again?” she asks, slapping the weight of the paddle against her palm. “Fathers should not have those desires for their daughters. Your sinful thoughts must be purged, agreed?” 

Sarek cannot stop himself. He lowers himself onto all fours like a sehlat and bows his head, raising his rear high in the air.

“I am an evil, wayward thing,” he berates himself. “Show me no mercy.” And she does not. Michael swings wide and lands the paddle against his rear with a sonorous crack. It sends a rush unlike pain through Sarek’s body as he shudders and shivers with illogical pleasure. She hits him again, and again, and again until the only sounds that surrounds them are that of hardwood against flesh. He can feel his ass becoming red and raw; each swing threatens to split his stinging skin.

“Filthy Pig! Rutting Dog! Lustful demon!” she insults him, striking him harder. “A lowly thing like you preying on a poor human girl! Surak weeps with shame!” 

“P-punish m-me…!” he stammers over his parted and panting lips. “I should burn in the fire of bogozh…!”

“Are you enjoying yourself, father? Father. Father? Father…!”

Sarek wakes with a start and sees Spock and Michael’s worried faces leaning over him.

“Father, you were...screaming?” his son inquires, his brow raised.

“Are you alright?’ Michael asks, pressing a handkerchief against his brow. He brushes her hand away gently.

Sweaty, sticky in parts he hopes they cannot see, Sarek looks up at them and says: “Please have Amanda return right away…”


	7. Day 16: Bedridden, Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael is pregnant and Suvoj wants to fuck her but it's complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Potential miscarriage. Nice, consensual married people heavy-petting. 
> 
> They have an open marriage, which will come up later.

If Suvoj could explain the source of his lust for his wife, it could be summarized with a single word: roundness. Roundness is to its essence human. Michael’s eyes, the tip of her nose and chin, her breasts, her hips, her ass, and now, having grown to its peak, her very pregnant belly all hold that rotundness that drives him mad.

Of course his people still hold their own sort of more-angular appeal as Suvoj’s attention _is_ drawn by the occasionally alluring Vulcan. However, he would never act on it - not without Michael’s express permission - especially, when he knows that his beautiful, round, adorable human wife waits at home.

She is the most sensual thing he has ever seen. After months of arduous medical work, Michael carries the life they made together and Suvoj wants nothing more than to fuck her, to worship her with his cock, to make her writhe with pleasure for generously gifting him with their first child.

But the last stage of her pregnancy presents serious difficulties: One morning, they wake to scarlet stains on their bedsheets. Suvoj rushes Michael to the hospital, where they learn that their hybrid fetus rests too heavily on her cervix and threatens to breach before it is due. The best the physician can do for now, is secure it closed with two dermal stitches and put Michael on mandated bed rest.

That very same day, when they finally return home, Suvoj is surprised to find that their mothers have already moved into the spare bedrooms of their Shi’Kahr apartments. It is a convenient partnership (at first), as each woman cares for Michael while he is away at work.

But the longer he and Michael are apart, the stronger their urge grows to be together. He made the fatal mistake of thinking they were alone, as Suvoj plants soft kisses along the crest of Michael’s belly.

“You know…” she purrs, her knees quaking as his fingers graze her folds. “...y-you do have an hour before you have to report for work…”

“I am well aware, wife,” he returns. “And I am determined to-” However, before Suvoj can even propose a course of action, his mother calls out to them from behind their bedroom door: 

“There will be none of that. Get ready for work.”

Suvoj sighs. These Vulcans and their ungodly hearing abilities...

When he finally emerges, fully prepared for his day, Suvoj’s mother is waiting for him as soon as he opens the door. She gestures for him to follow her to the kitchen, where Amanda is packing his midday meal. 

“The physical aspects of your bond can wait or by Surak help you,” Amanda threatens him with a ladle. Her plomeek soup usually smells divine under normal circumstances, but now Suvoj only smells his own fear as she glares at him with her deep, dark eyes. 

“Correct,” his own mother adds. At some point, without him seeing, she has found a knife, of which she uses to begin slicing vegetables that were resting on the counter. “You are not an Orion or a post-melee Klingon or an Andorian female in heat. You are Vulcan, a son of logic, and you _will_ exercise restraint.”

And while Suvoj is more than satisfied that the women in their newly joined families rally together around them so fiercely, what he and his wife truly want is time alone. But the rest of their families take part in their mother’s plot to keep them apart. Randomly, Sybok sends Michael some Gal-en-du’un to bring her an easy sleep. Spock, who Suvoj was certain was on the other side of the quadrant with the Enterprise, brings her materials from her work, so she will not be behind upon her return.

Even Sarek comes, spending his precious time rubbing his human daughter’s feet and feeding her fruits. However, not at the same time and not in that order.

“It is only logical,” he objects as Suvoj tries to relieve him of his duty. “For both my child and grandchild to survive, my daughter must be relaxed and calm.”

Then one fateful evening, he and Michael finally find some refuge during their bath time. Bathing is unusual to Vulcans as water is rare. However, the ever growing diversity of their non-Vulcan population demands it and it is not entirely difficult given their already intricate water recycling systems. 

However, none of this internal exposition is as important as the fact that both of his mothers are out on errands for the evening.

“I will do the grocery shopping,” Amanda announces. “Michael could do with more iron and proteins.”

“I will retrieve her medicines and supplements, and check on the status of the construction of your crib,” his own mother adds. They leave, letting it be known that they will be gone for several hours.

As they settle together in the overly warm water, Suvoj rests his palm against her belly. He feels his daughter’s kicks.

“She is strong…” he utters quietly as her tiny fist presses against his own. “...like her mother.”

“Maybe even more so…” Michael groans. “A week more and we will be able to meet her.”

They kiss and it feels like the first time - when he and Michael laid, pressed together on her too small dorm bed in Xahea. His hand slips between her legs, rubbing gently over her clitoral hood. Michael cranes her neck and Suvoj immediately nips at it, kissing everything his lips can reach. The water sloshes lazily as he strokes her, his erection growing stiff against the small of her back.

It does not take long for Michael to reach orgasm - her body having grown more sensitive during her pregnancy. And Suvoj soon finds him finishing against her. He gasps and rests his forehead in the crook of her neck.

“I am bonded to you without contest or question…” is the closest thing he can say to the human equivalent of ‘I love you.’ Michael sends her feelings through their bond and he knows they will be together forever.

~~~

A week later, as dawn breaks, Michael brings their daughter into the world. When Suvoj rushes in (Vulcan males are not permitted to witness the birth.), he is nearly overcome with emotion. But he summons all of his strength as he takes his daughter into his outstretched arms. She is a tiny, wailing, pointed-ear little thing. She possesses her mother’s coloring and her naturally curly hair. But her eyes are like his - dark, Vulcanian, and piercing.

“T’Rama Gabrielle S’chn T’gai?” Michael comments, tilting her head in thought. “It is...oddly appropriate.”

T’Rama gurgles in agreement. Their family is now complete.


	8. Day 1: Witch, Stabbed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Michael needs to pump, T'Pring is the wildest Vulcan daughter of Surak, and Gorns are tender lovers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fun, consensual lesbian orgy! All lady-indentifying aliens are welcome!

Vulcans do not believe in magic. The closest word they have to describe such a phenomenon is “tehsat,” which loosely translates into “a form of deception that preys one’s ignorance of science and reasoning.” So, when T’Pring and her companions invite Michael to the center of the Forge, join hands while circling a towering bonfire, and declare themselves to be witches, she finds herself more confused than alarmed.

Certainly, she recognizes the socio-cultural importance of magic (Earth’s many religions believe in magic and mysticism to some degree.). After all, it is only a yet-undiscovered form of science and religion, its rudimentary laboratory.

But tonight is anything but scientific: They stand naked under the shadow of T’Khut’s darkest phase, arms raised to the stars strewn across Eridani’s skies. They chant to these celestial bodies - declaring them to be the souls of the departed and ask them to bestow benedictions upon everyone in attendance. 

While they chant, illuminated by the roaring fire, Michael takes a closer look at their collective: Andorian, Denobulan, Vulcan, Bolian, Ferengi, Orion, Bajoran, Elaysian, Betazoid, Terran, Caitian, Gorn... There are even a few Klingon and Romulan. Most surprisingly, there is a J’Naii amongst their ranks! Their bodies are an exhibition of stretch marks, scars, puckers, dots, dimples, divots, patches, and burns… Appreciatively, Michael looks down at the lines on her own belly and thighs - a testament of T’Rama’s recent birth - and feels pride.

Suddenly, T’Pring cries out and pulls her from her reverie. She turns and sees her raising a knife above her head and stabbing it into an unknown fruit’s flesh. She pours its juice into a series of cups lined up in front of her as those nearest to her pass them along their circle until everyone has a cup.

As they drink together, a elderly Denobulan woman throws an entire bushel of dried Gal-en-du’un leaves onto the bonfire. Instantly, Michael’s mind becomes a swirling mass of pure contentment. Her cup slips from her loosened grip as a Gorn female extends her clawed hand. She takes it, pressing their bodies together. Her skin smooth like well-oiled leather. She does not have mammalian curves, she is soft and inviting in her own way. They neck, rubbing their heady scents against each other. Gently, she takes Michael’s face between her talons and pulls her head back, letting her tiny forked tongue entangle with hers.

(“I never imagine a human would taste so sweet…” the Gorn grumbles through her psionic powers.)

A pair of wizened, blue hands slip around her chest, cupping her milk-heavy breasts as Michael is pulled backwards into the arms of an older Andorian woman. She has not pumped in several hours, their soreness is lessened by her glacial grip. 

“A new mother?” she asks, her icy breath tingling against her earlobe. She massages her gingerly, until the painful pressure built up is released as rivulets of breast milk trickling down over her cerulean fingers. “I feel so blessed…” 

A Tellurite joins them, greedily suckling at her leaking breasts, lapping at her as if she were own child. She nips at her, pulling her sensitive flesh until they form stiff peaks. Michael moans so loudly, she surprises herself. 

“I pity your poor baby for having a mother with so little control,” she insults her between loud slurps. Her inky, deep-set eyes lock with Michael’s as her tongue licks away the milks gathered in the corners of her rude mouth. “You bellow like a targ.” 

“E-envious?” Michae returns. “Are you so frigid that stealing a mother’s milk is the only way to warm you up? You _look_ like a targ.” The Tellurite lets out a huge laugh before resuming her sensuous attack. The Andorian woman guides Michael’s hand to her sex and she obliges, stroking her gently. She feels as if her hand will melt a way, slightly taken aback from the intense heat that radiates from a being from a near subzero environment. A Ferengi female finds her way over, latching herself on to Michael’s clitoral hood. She rolls her nubs carefully between those tiny, sharp teeth, teasing her so tortuously that she feels she might burst on the spot. And she does - her pelvic floor weakened from birth - but the Ferengi drinks it up along with everything else she has to give.

Somehow, in the middle of this carnal chaos, they find each. Michael spots T'Pring on her makeshift altar, riding the cock of a Romulan woman as she tastes her fingers freshly drawn from a Gorn’s glistening cloaca. Her face is nothing but an emotional spectrum of lust, dominance, and pride. And it is then, Michael finally understands the woman she is seeing: not a daughter of Surak or a Vulcan or a humanoid but a force that embodies a harsh, incredible desire for freedom. 

Michael finds herself on her back just as the Elyasian plants herself onto her gasping mouth. It is nothing but a literal torrent of pleasure and she finds herself lost, tossed about from partner to partner, giving ecstasy as she seeks it. Their moans and cries rise into the night, the Watcher (hopefully) their only audience as they form a sapphic daisy chain that lasts until its final waxing light.

~~~

Michael wakes to find T’Rama’s adorable face entirely too close to her own. With impossibly tiny hands, she watches as her daughter reaches out and touches her cheeks.

“Uhm-haa…” she gurgles curiously, through their bond. (Returned. Happy.)

“Mommy missed you too, Rama-tal-kam…” she whispers back. T’Rama lets out a series of delighted squeals from her toothless smile as Michaels scoops her up and holds her high overhead. The bedroom door creaks open as Suvoj comes in, carrying a breakfast tray. Ashamed, she quickly sets their daughter back on the bed, her own smile fading immediately.

As he lays the tray on her lap, she feels the need to apologize: “H-husband, I-” 

“I am not Sarek,” he says, kissing her forehead. “There is a real and logical need for a human mother and her half-human daughter to occasionally and openly express their emotions.” To emphasize his point, Suvoj extends his hand to T’Rama, who immediately latches onto a finger and gums it in her mouth. “We are very satisfied that you are home...”

Michael smiles and reaches for her breakfast. Suddenly, she pauses, her brow furrowing deeply as her mug floats near her lips. “Wait... _how_ did I get back?” Her husband tilts his head curiously.

“A Tellurite helped you home,” Suvoj explains. He frees himself from T’Rama and picks her up before sitting beside Michael on their bed. “After enduring her ritualistic-cultural ignominy, she stated that your gathering was a success and my wife ‘partied like a champion.’” 

“We did consume a great deal of controlled substances. So, T’Rama will have to settle for the bottle today. Very sorry, tal-kam…” she apologizes to her daughter. But T’Rama pays her no mind as she is hyper focused on chewing on her father’s forearm. 

“Yes, I had surmised that. You spent thirty minutes eating leftovers on our kitchen floor.”

Michael groans inwardly as the memories of her thoroughly demolishing a crudités platter in a half-buttoned pajama top came flooding back. 

( _Occasional indulgences are to be expected. No harm was done, ashalik._ ) 

She places a soft kiss against Suvoj’s temple, which he returns several times over. Michael settles back onto her pillows, watching the two greatest loves of her life simply enjoy each others’ company. It goes on like this for a while as she eats her lovingly prepared breakfast, the occasional hiccup from T’Rama igniting some faint laughter.

Then, as she picks up a gespar roll with the intent to savor its delicate, sweet flavor, Michael stops cold. Slowly, she turns to her mate, eyes wide.

“H-husband…” she stammers, a cold sensation gripping her aching bones. “...I think T’Pring is a witch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely ADMIRE and ADORE T'Pring and her cunning. And while I love Spock too, she was totally right in Amok Time. Why shouldn't she have exactly what she wants in her own life? Economic freedom, an equal partnership with someone that wants her, and control of her destiny? UGH. I LOVE HERRRRRR~!
> 
> If anything, it's the Vulcan's fault for putting everyone in that position. She did the best with what she got. 
> 
> Also, a little sad that some of the comics try to portray her as a bitter ex. So misogynistic. So pathetic and sad.


	9. Day 14: Quicksand, Torture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael's inter-dimensional doppelganger is having a really hard time transitioning into a life where she does not have to kill people, because she sometimes wants to still kill people. 
> 
> Warnings: Suicidal ideation/mention, (Justifiable?) murder, bloodkink/eating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am gonna put a timeline in the final chapter for people that want to read this in order. But Chapter 10 takes place after Chapter 1, after Michael's transfer to Xahea BUT before she gets married.

Like the le’matya  _ her  _ Sarek forced her to emulate, Gabrielle needs to kill. Sure, she made attempts to replace this ingrained desire for murder: gardening, knitting, painting, meditating, learning new Vulcan martial arts, engaging in some occasional light espionage for the Defense Force...

However, once a while, her need becomes too strong. So, Gabrielle slips into the deepest parts of the Forge and finds prey worthy of her gift, leaving their slaughtered bodies behind for sky burial by bloodwing. 

Like a le’matya, she brings trophies to her  _ new _ Sarek - a talon or tentacle here, a fang or mandible there. And even though it unnerves him, as (most) Vulcans believe hunting to be abhorrent, the only thing he ever says is: “It is better that you were successful.”

Yet, it is still not enough. So, Gabrielle contemplates suicide. She could go to the Forge, climb her favorite mountain, press her blade to her throat and let it have one final drink - anything if it means not taking another sentient life.

But then, Michael returns home for Tal-Shanar, bringing with her a solution to their mutual problem. 

~~~

Their parents are happy to learn their Michael had been promoted and will be working as a researcher on Xahea next month.

From her hidden perch, her empathic abilities allow Gabrielle to see that, though her “twin” maintains a neutral expression, Michael feels sorrow and shame each time they praise her. That night, when she goes to bed, Gabrielle slips into her room, where she finds Michael tossing and groaning in her sleep.

Her type of Vulcan telepathy permits her to read thoughts without touching another. So, she throws herself into Michael’s nightmare as if diving into the sea. Gabrielle witnesses Michael being forced into a mating bond with a Vulcan who she recognizes as the former V.E.G. Director Seyhan. She witnesses her being submitted to the horrifying images of his desire to rape her; how he lambastes her humanness and uses it a justification for what he perceives to be her inevitable violation. And though Michael (with some help) is able to escape the worst of it, she still lets him finish in her mouth to prevent them both from succumbing to plak tow.

She has seen enough. Gabrielle returns to her own body. Softly, she bends over and places a chaste kiss on Michael’s forehead. Her twin stops thrashing, her expression becoming more serene.

“Do not worry, sister,” Gabrielle whispers into her ear. “I will take care of it.”

~~~

Some time later, during their post-morning meditation tea, she announces to Sarek: “I wanna to do this  _ kahs-wan _ thing, Dad.” She idly twirls a butter knife between deft fingers before planting it straight up in her uneaten piece of saffir. “I think if I do this - struggle for a bit in the wilds - maybe it might calm me down, you know?”

“A hypothesis worthy of thorough examination,” he replies, holding out his empty mug. She fills it. “And perhaps an appropriate option as Kal Rekk is almost upon us.” 

She nods and sets out first thing in the morning.

~~~

The first two days are easy. Gabrielle fashions a stone knife, using it to cut away materials for shelter and water collection. She finds some wild fruits and quattil which she roasts together under the evening sky. 

On day three, from afar, she runs into a Vulcan girl undergoing her own  _ kahs-wan _ . She feels a sudden and justified anger at this twisted rite of passage. Gabrielle has to remind herself that  **_these_ ** Vulcan children have a choice and that no punishment waits for them for refusing. Hidden, she watches the girl cleverly make a drinking gourd from cactus bud. She cannot help but smile and feel proud of her. And yet, Gabrielle decides to remain nearby, just in case.

Day four, a hungry norsehlat picks up the girl’s scent and begins to stalk her. Gabrielle manages to appease it, by slaughtering several hayalit and using their fresh blood to lure it away.

Day five, the norsehlat does not return. At least, not for the girl. She thanks it with a small offering of quattil and sandworms. 

Day six, the girl leaves, having completed her trial. From the shadows, she watches as her parents welcome her home.

Day seven, Gabrielle finds her target, running through the quicksand pits, pursued by a pair of norsehlat. In the months following her “meeting” with Michael, she planted the idea of coming to the Forge for Kal Rekk in Seyhan’s mind. Every waking moment, every dream rendered in sleep, every pause wrought in meditation, she plays the same memory of his Pon Farr-driven assault on her twin until his guilt no longer permits him to eat, drink, or sleep. 

He is nearly clear of the quicksand field, which she cannot allow. So, Gabrielle lets loose a stone from her sling, striking him in the middle of his forehead. He yelps and stumbles, creating an opening for a norsehlat to strike him in the chest. He falls backwards into the quicksand pit and is swallowed immediately up to his middle. But the beasts still pace the shore, yowling and hissing, which prevent Gabrielle from executing the next stage of her plan.

She throws her voice, mimicking the mating call of a chkariya and the norsehlat takes off. She waits and watches until the pair are swallowed up by the surrounding dunes before descending

“Do you require assistance?” Gabrielle asks, her tone teasing as she frees a vine rope from her hip. Without waiting for his answer, she tosses it in an arc towards him. It lands just within his desperate reach, but when he makes a grab for it, she yanks it away. “Oh, did I miss?”

From where she stands, Gabrielle sees his dark eyes narrowing as he no doubt notices the ridges on her brow. “Riolozhikaik Rihansu...” Seyhan hisses through clenched teeth. The quicksand has reached his throat now, his arms still raised above his head. “If you intend to help, then do so…!”

With a dramatic eye roll, Gabrielle tosses the rope, he manages to catch it midair, and she pulls him ashore.

“For a Romulan’s feet to touch Vulcan during the most sacred time of Kal Rekk,” he seethes. “When I return, I will-”

He does not finish his thought as Gabrielle pushes her knife through his skull to its hilt. The  _ former _ Director gasps, his eyes wide, mouth agape.

(Aushfa.)

With a vicious twist, she removes her weapon and the Vulcan falls into a heap. His blood steadily pours from his wound, staining the sand at her feet a brilliant green. Slowly, Gabrielle runs the flat of her blade over her tongue. The copper blood hits her system, giving her a euphoric rush. Her knees knock together as a familiar, pleasurable heat builds between her legs.

Her norsehlat companions return, watching her silently as she licks her blade clean, suckling her fingers as she devours every drop of verdant blood. 

“Come, my friends,” she calls to them, gesturing to the corpse that lay between. “Eat.”


	10. Day 25: Restraints, Crawl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock's life is an example of "No good deed goes unpunished" when he and the Enterprise answer a distress call from his sister.
> 
> Warning: Cock and ball torture, speciesism/racism, Sexual Assault, rape (male victim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I NEED TO BETA FASTERRRRRR~! But I am so tiredddddddddddddddd~!

By the time Spock realizes she is not his sister, it is entirely too late. He wakes, finding himself laying on his back in the transporter room ; his wrists bound beneath him and his ankles tethered to the legs of the transporter panel. He turns his aching head and sees pieces of his helmet lying shattered around him like a makeshift halo. 

He sighs.

This all began when the Enterprise received a distress call from a V.E.G. shuttle in the Marrat Nebula. And when they answered it, he was shocked to learn that 1) the call came from his own sister and and 2) when she was transporting back to her ship, a passing ion storm had overloaded her systems and caused critical damage to her life support systems. They attempted to transport her to their ship but they were unsuccessful with the ionic inference. 

So, Spock volunteered to retrieve her himself. Michael annoyed him and she was clearly Sarek's favorite, but she was still his elder sister. 

But when he finally boarded her ship and found his sister standing, Michael promptly shot him in the chest. 

Obviously, her phaser had been on stun. (Otherwise, he would not have been able to give himself this lengthy recap of the events.)

“Finally awake, I see...” he hears _Michael_ purr from the doorway. Spock cranes his neck to look at her as she enters, her hips sway in a manner that makes him feel uneasy in a way he had not since he was a young boy. Whomever this imposter is, they are identical to his sister - save for the severe, curly bun piled atop her head, her eyes hold no warmth or love for him, and the strangely ornate knife of unknown origin that she carries. 

(Spock is certain that that is not a part of her standard V.E.G. issued uniform.) 

“I am aware of the tensions that exist within our precarious familial bond,” he says to her as she reaches his side. She stares down at him with those cold eyes, a small smile playing on her full lips. “...but I never would have surmised that they would result in you shooting me without provocation. Explain yourself.”

His _sister_ responds by straddling him, sitting her rear down hard onto his pelvis. Internally, he appreciates her firmness as she bounces experimentally on his lap. Spock sets his jaw as he feels himself stirring inside his suit. How many times had he privately wished for this in his youth? How many times did he hope to one day replace Sybok or Suvoj as her partner? How many of his dress socks had he ruined thinking about her curves?

But now, he knew for sure that this was not his Michael. His sister would never see him as anything but her “little brother” and her former “little shadow…”

“You’re a big boy, aren’t you?” she teases, pulling him from his thoughts. With her free hand, she reaches backwards, expertly squeezing his half-formed erection through his suit. The taste of copper sparks against his tongue as Spock struggles to maintain control. If she continues to stroke him like this, he will assuredly chew a hole through his own cheek.

“Who are you? Where is my sister?” he asks.

“Don’t know. One moment, I was transporting over to my weekly team-building orgy, and then the next thing I knew, I arrived at this dump. Alone.”

“So, are you the only one on this ship?”

“Did you not comprehend what I just told you? By the Emperor, Vulcans are such a stupid, useless race,” the False Michael complains. She unsheathes her knife. “Listen, pig-dog, you will service me until my download of this floating hovel’s database is complete. And if you are any good at it, I may be inclined to let you live. Fight me, refuse me…” She falls silent, pressing the point of her knife against his stomach.

“...Understood...” he mutters. With a terrifying smile, she begins to slice away his suit around his waist.

~~~

He learns very quickly that _this_ Michael - much like T’Pring - loves to cause him pain. After pulling the lower half of his suit around his ankles, she kicks his knees apart and comes to stand between his legs. She then removes her shoes and sock, idlying tossing them at his head after doing so. Spock manages to dodge most of her attacks, but her final boot catches him on his chin. 

Unphased by her act of childish violence, Michael then raises her left foot, and sets it firmly on his scrotum. Spock gasps from the contact as her skin is icy against his heated flesh. She rolls and pinches his testicles under her toes, tugging as his most sensitive parts. 

“I am always shocked by the fact that Vulcan males have balls at all,” she mocks him, giving him a rather vicious yank. “You’re all so...docile.” When Spock says nothing, she steps down on him. Hard. And while (thankfully) she never put her full weight on him, it is still enough to send sparks of pain swimming across his vision. Spock grits his teeth, refusing to cry out. 

After another minute or so, she moves on, sinking down onto her knees. Michael takes the shaft of his penis into her hand and runs her knife along its length, tracing each and every vein she finds. He grunts each time as she sticks him, pressing the knife just hard enough to draw pinpricks of blood. Like a kitten lapping at a saucerful of milk, she licks away each verdant pearl. 

“So green…” Michael mutters, as Spock (shamefully) feels himself hardening in her hand. “Like a cucumber. But a rather thick one though…”

“I take no pleasure from this,” he lies as she continues to trace her tongue along his shaft. The odd mixture of his humiliation, fear, and forbidden desire for his own sister creates a sense of euphoria within him. But at the same time, he wants nothing more than to tear her apart while mounting her like a wild sehlat. 

“I disagree,” Michael objects. She rolls his foreskin down around his gland, turning his cock around in her hand as she examines it. “I guess Vulcan men have at least _one_ redeeming quality.” She swallows his head between her full lips and suckles on his gland so loudly that it echoes off of the transporter room’s walls. He is overwhelmed immediately - T’Pring has never given anything more than her hand and even then, it was rather...dry. 

Spock arches his hips and Michael pulls him from her mouth. “Stay still or else.” To emphasize her point, she presses the blade’s edge against the base of cock.

“...Understood.” 

She engulfs him again, her tongue circling his tip while occasionally teasing his urethral entrance. And just as he feels as if he would cum right then in this imposter’s mouth, she pinches him tightly beneath his scrotum. Pain shoots through him like a jolt, he twists his toes to keep from bucking.

Michael slaps his erection before she places her blade between her teeth, lifts the bottom part of her robes (He is somewhat horrified, delighted to learn that she is not wearing anything underneath.) and straddles him once again. She grabs hold of his cock, lining its gland against the warm, wet entrance of her vaginal canal. Without ceremony, she sinks herself on to him, sending him into a state of shock. Her _pussy_ is so impossibly hot as she surrounds him, that he feels as if he will melt on the spot. He lets out a groan that even he was not sure he was capable of making as she begins to ride him, lifting her hips upward to its tip before sliding tortuously, slowly back down to its base.

As she picks up speed, Spock begins to thrust his hips to match her pace. She could gut him like an aylak for all he could care, but his efforts were met with encouraging gasps and groans, instead of her blade. So he bucks harder, watching with delight as the imposter’s breasts bouncing wildly. 

“H-harder…!” she snaps, having removed her weapon from between her teeth. Spock obliges, fully arching into her now. 

And then, he sees it. The imposter has left herself open, lost in her own pleasure. Spock bucks as hard as he can, pitching her upward and forward. Michael falters and stumbles towards him, and it is then that he raises up and headbutts hard enough to knock her out. She instantly slumps onto his chest, her knife clattering down beside him. 

He must move quickly now.

Spock rolls onto his side, letting her fall flat against the floor. He then sits up and scooches a bit before flopping backwards to grab at the knife with his bound hands. He manages to pull the blade between his fingers and sets to work, sawing at his binds. After a few minutes, he manages to cut his wrists free, before setting on his ankles. He tosses his binding and what was left of the bottom half of his suit aside when he is done.

Ignoring his nagging erection and the fact that his entire ass is hanging out, he drags the imposter’s body onto the transporter pad before returning to the console where he re-enters the same specifications and coordinates his real sister attempted to use earlier. 

Hope was the logical of the illogical, but it was all Spock had and needed to get _her_ back. 

He slides the controls on the panel and the evil doppelganger fades away from his sight. 

Moments later, the transporter again whirls to life and produces his sister, who collapses to the floor upon completing her rematerialization. He rushes over to her, helping her into a sitting position as he brushes her bangs away from her face.

“Michael? Do you know who I am? Do you know where you are?”

“S...Spock…?” she blinks at him through heavy-lidded eyes. “I... this is my shuttle, I think? But I was just somewhere else. I dreamed I was in another world and everyone was really mean…?” 

He says nothing, holding his sister tightly against his chest. She reciprocates, her shaky arms moving to embrace him too. So much time wasted on his petty, one-sided feud, when Michael had done nothing but love him. He continues to hold her for a while longer, pressing his cheek against hers, letting him know how much he worried...

Suddenly, Michael pushes away. Spock sees her face fully now, her cheeks grown darker under her dark skin. She theatrically rolls her eyes upward to the ceiling. 

“Sorry, little b-brother,” she stammers, openly refusing to look at him. “B-but why is your dick completely out right now...?!”


	11. Day 2: Crime/Criminal, Bloody Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarek puts the pieces together. Gabrielle is not ok.
> 
> All whump, no kink.
> 
> Warnings: Child abuse, implied sexual abuse of a minor, forced miscarriage, physical and mental abuse of a minor

She works the soil, parting a rare patch of fertile earth with well-practiced hands. Ironically, Gabrielle feels cleaner as the dirt that clings to her hides the green patches that stain her dark skin. No matter how hard she scrubs, no matter how long she soaks, his blood stays with her.

Like always.

“It is good your kahs-wan was a success and that you returned unharmed.” 

Gabrielle looks up from where she kneels and spies Sarek standing at her garden gate. She waves at him and he comes in, the gate creaking and swinging shut behind him. Her heart always flutters for a moment when she first sees him - when her mind is slow to understand that this Sarek is not  _ her _ Sarek. 

“As ya’know, I had practice from hunting, so it wasn’t too hard,” she admits, as he draws near. She wipes her soil-covered hands on a rag that hangs from her hip pocket. “But it was fun. A real challenge, right?” 

Sarek nods, his mouth forming into a thin, tight line that makes her stomach turn.

“That may be, but Gabrielle…” he says, locking his gaze with hers. “...why did you kill Former Director Seyhan?”

She is not like Sarek. Without her helm to hide her face, he can see her struggling between a lie and a distraction. So, Gabrielle settles on the truth, surprising even herself: “How did you know?”

“Michael shares a part of her katra with me. I knew about her nightmares and the...trauma she experienced…” he confesses. “But then, one night when she was visiting us and I tried to help her through it, I saw you in her dreams, watching as I did.”

She knows Vulcan familial bonds are powerful - that in moments of intense stress, they can reach out and pull at one another. It is nothing like her abilities which are designed to control or be controlled.

Gabrielle is livid despite knowing this. 

“You saw your own daughter being violated by that  _ aushfa _ and you did  _ nothing _ ?!” 

“I launched the investigation, which uncovered other victims and resulted in his forced resignation,” he pauses, folding his hands behind his back. “But since Seyhan is dead now, there is no longer a path for justice.”

“No justice?” Gabrielle returns, her tone incredulous. “ _ I delivered justice _ .”

“No, you did not. What you did was revenge. If he is dead, how can he make amends?”

“By losing his life…!” she shouts, stamping her foot in the dirt. “He deserves to suffer!”

“But he cannot, now that he is  _ gone _ ...” he sighs. She searches his face for understanding and, to her horror, she finds it, as Sarek clears his throat and continues: “Gabrielle, I know you were a child-”

“-stop it, I-”

“-what my counterpart did to you, no true father could ever do-”

“-n-no, please-” 

“- I too would be satisfied with his death, but -”

“Stop… STOP TALKING!”

Gabrielle gasps, clutching the sides of her head. She does not want to remember the weight of his body on hers; how she felt crushed beneath him, unable to struggle or escape; how he tore her open and made her bleed so badly that for days that it hurt to even stand; how he beat her vicious when he learned she had his--- 

Sarek does stop but he never retreats. He does what his human mate would do in this moment, despite the fact that she can hear every fiber of his touch-telepathic being screaming for him not to, he embraces her. And she sags against Sarek, unable to support herself and her grief.


	12. Day 6: Theft, Betrayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T’Rama brings a special guest to show and tell.
> 
> Kinky, consensual married people sex. Light bondage. Pegging(ish). Object insertion/urertha play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! So, I am behind (officially) but, thb, I needed a break. Anyway, like maybe... three to four fics will come out over the course of the next week. I am also moving which has eaten into my writing time...

Amanda’s heart sinks when she sees T’Rama sitting and sobbing quietly on a chair in the corner of the classroom, while Instructor Kaim kneels beside her. She can hear him uttering gentle words that clearly bring her granddaughter no comfort.

“I came per your request,” Amanda announces, stalking into the classroom. “What has happened to _my_ T’Rama?”

“R-Rama is a b-bad g-girl…!” her granddaughter cries as she turns towards her, her adorable face contorted with such emotional pain, her small shoulders shaking. Amanda keeps her expression neutral but tightly balls-up her fists under her cape. Surak, help her, if she learns that her Instructor is the source of her distress...f

“You are _not_ bad, nor have you done a bad thing,” Instructor Kaim explains, dabbing at her wet eyes with a handkerchief. “Therefore, logic dictates that T’Rama’s behavior nor character has warranted a need for reprimand or castigation.” That seems to help some as T’Rama’s sobs quiet into sniffles. 

Amanda, watching her beloved granddaughter scrubs at her big, round eyes with her tiny fists, decides that she will continue to let this man live. 

For now. 

Instructor Kaim rises to his feet and greets Amanda with a ta’al, which she does not return. He coughs politely, sensing her lingering anger and continues: “Lady Amanda, there was a misunderstanding at today’s Show-And-Tell session. As you know, it was T’Rama’s turn to bring in an item of interest and share its history with her peers.”

“I am familiar with the concept,” she sighs, her frown deepening. “...but what I do not understand is why this assignment resulted in my _three-year old_ granddaughter’s state of emotional distress.” 

“Ma’am, I assure you that T’Rama fulfilled both tasks more than adequately. H-however…”

Amanda is not entirely sure, but she swears she hears Instructor Kaim _gulp_ during his brief pause. He gestures for T’Rama to stand, which she does immediately. When she fully turns towards Amanda, she notices that her granddaughter is holding a red velvet drawstring bag that she has never seen before. 

“Please show your Show-And-Tell item to your grandmother, T’Rama.”

She nods, her curly bob bouncing as she does. She opens the bag and pulls out a long, cylindrical object that is brightly colored and rather bulbous in three places. Amanda’s suspicions are (unfortunately) confirmed, when to everyone’s horror, T’Rama turns it on and it begins to vibrate. 

_Loudly_. 

“Tickles good!” she giggles as she presses it against her chubby cheek. T’Rama turns and presses it against her Instructor’s forearm. “See?”

Amanda’s entire face feels as if it is on fire. Slowly, her gaze travels to Instructor Kaim’s face, and he looks even greener than before. He shuts his eyes as T’Rama rubs the vibrator along his wrist.

“L-Lady, if you w-would,” he stammers slightly as he brings his hands behind him. 

Amanda swallows the knot in her throat. She then holds her hand out, being sure to keep her expression soft but neutral as she addresses her granddaughter: “T”Rama Gabrielle, please give that to your _ko’mehk-il_ , and then go get your things.”

Thankfully, she does so without fuss. Right away, Amanda turns it off the offending thing and stuffs it into her purse.

“Do not hold this against her,” she pleads watching her granddaughter race over to her cubby. “This was an extremely unfortunate error, Instructor Kaim.”

“Agreed. Therefore, I am giving her another opportunity to present next week,” he assures her. “Please have a more **_appropriate_ ** item prepared by then...”

As Amanda nods in understanding, T’Rama returns with her school bag and she takes her hand. The Instructor says nothing when she does this, as even Vulcan children still need regular physical contact at this stage of development. T’Rama gives him a ta’al as they leave, and to Amanda’s relief, he returns it. 

When they are finally outside of the building and by her transport, she allows herself to breath again. 

“Come, Rama-lama…” Amanda says softly, giving her granddaughter a wink. “Gram-gram will take you for some ice cream, ok?”

T’Rama gasps excitedly, her dazzling smile so wide. She practically skips up the transporter ramp steps after that.

~~~ 

Suvoj tests his restraints, tugging idly on his wrist and ankle cuffs. Their canopy posts shake a bit but remain sturdy. He is satisfied that they are very well-secured - maybe even a bit tight - and decides he will endure it given what is coming. After a tense afternoon that began with his-mother-in-law slamming their missing sex toy down in the middle of their coffee table and ended with her taking their little girl for the night, he and Michael were due for some stress relief.

“I don’t know if I can show my face at her school on Cycle Day 1,” he hears Michael groan as she emerges from her bathroom. He cranes his head and sees she is wearing his favorite outfit for tonight’s play - a black latex apron and matching flared, thigh-high circle skirt that accent her feminine curves in a way that makes his loins ache. She is barefoot and her pedicure is a rich, deep crimson color as he requested.

“Amanda said that Instructor Kaim was very understanding,” he offers as his wife reaches their bedside. She leans over him, letting her breasts graze his cheeks as she tightens his restraints even more. He grunts as the cuffs pinch his skin. “I am certain that many other, similarly embarrassing incidents have occurred before.”

“God, I hope so…” Michael mutters. She opens her nightstand drawer and produces a pair of red latex gloves. She pulls each one on with a sonorus “snap” that makes Suvoj’s stomach clench in delight. “...but I should bring gespar rolls for the next snack time.” 

She returns to the drawer, and this time, fishes out a flat, black box and sets it on the nightstand. As she opens its lid, Suvoj sees several steel, J-hooked rods gleaming in the soft light. He notes they are a little on the smaller side tonight - no more bigger in diameter than a large syringe. Michael snatches one up and deftly twirls it between the fingers on one hand. 

“Hold still, Suvvie...” his wife purrs, taking his shaft into her gloved grasp. With a mischievous smile, she slowly inserts the rod into his urethra. Suvoj throws his head back - moaning pitifully as she pushes it clear to the base of its j-hooked tip. By Surak, he finds it a pleasurable discomfort - like something between an itch and tickle. He curls his toes as one of Michael’s hands moves to cup his testicles, kneading them with her skillful fingers. Suvoj feels himself growing hard. The bed shifts slightly as Michael climbs on and kneels between his splayed legs, never stopping as she strokes and pulls his most sensitive flesh.

“But k’diwa, how did our Rama-lama find _your_ toy in the first place?” she asks, her breath tickling hotly against his manhood. She takes its head between her full lips and suckles at it rather noisily for a full minute, before she pulls away. Suvoj almost cums there and then, as she wipes away a thick string of his pre-cum and her saliva that dangles from her bottom lip with her thumb. She pulls out a bit of rubber tubing from her breasts, and with quick fingers, ties it snuggily underneath his scrotum. It cinches his flesh rather painfully as she tugs it closed. 

“I...I may have forgotten…when I left it to dry on my bathroom sink...” Suvoj pants. He feels as if he will burst. “Darling, p-please…!”

Michael’s hands fall away as she rises to sit back on her heels, folding her arms across her aproned chest. 

“Explain yourself,” she orders in a tone that makes his molars ache.

“I...was overtired from our ‘playtime.’ And in a rush to arrive at work and deliver T’Rama to school on time…I told her to grab anything of interest of her, so we could leave…!”

Michael climbs off the bed. She stalks away and disappears into her walk-in closet, appearing minutes later with a braided cat-o-nine tails in her latex-covered fist.

“Ashalik, that was a most unfortunate oversight…” Michael sighs as she moves to stand beside him. Without warning, she brings the whip down, hard across his middle, striking his stomach, pelvis and straining cock. She beats him with her full human strength and it is enough to elicit pained yelps from Suvoj with each blow. “You know our T’Rama is a very curious little girl…!” 

“I w-will n-not do it again…!” he hisses between hits. But she does not relent. Michael beats him until she is breathless and panting and her husband is decorated in angry verdant welts. She wipes away a few beads of sweat on her beautiful brow and tosses the whip aside.

“You are so adept at many things but I do not know how I can forgive you for embarrassing us like this,” Michael continues to chide him. She returns to her drawer and finds his ball gag, lube, and that damned vibrator that started this entire nonsense. In record time, she secures the gag over Suvoj’s mouth, giving the strap a rather rough tug as she secures it.

Michael pours several generous dollops of lube onto the vibe; it makes a crude, sloshing sound as she runs her hand over it. Lazily, she moves to rub her slicked fingers against his entrance before pushing it in. Suvoj sees stars as it begins to press against his prostate. She turns it on and he is instantly overwhelmed by the invasive pleasure. He raises his hips clear off the bed, feet kicking as Michael holds it there, prodding his deepest parts. She digs her nails into his welts, forcing him back down onto the bed.

His wife presses a kiss against his sweaty temple. “I’ll leave you here for an hour, and let you meditate on your transgression.” She pulls off her gloves and tosses that roughly at his face. Suvoj groans, bucking as the vibrator continues to assault him. 

“Oh, and k’diwa…?” Michael calls to him as he sees her and that round ass of hers lingering in the doorway. “You paint on our sheets and you are on laundry duty for the rest of the month…”


	13. Day 10: Closet, Bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is not T'Rama's job to comfort stupid-ass boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T'Rama, Jr. is 14.
> 
> Warnings: Unwanted kiss, fantastic alien racism, slut-shaming

#####  During midday break, Instructor T’Pem tasks T’Rama and Seval with the removal of old computing equipment from the utility closets and its subsequent relocation to the recycling area for monthly pick-up.

“Your mother is human, correct?” Seval asks as he slows the anti-gravity lift to a halt when they reach their destination. 

T’Rama’s gut clenches. Despite her people’s philosophical edict -  _ Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations _ \- she knows all too well that their prejudices still run very deep. 

You did not need to be a VSA graduate to see that the majority Vulcans in power by far and wide physically resemble her maternal uncles and grandfather. Sons were all the more likely than daughters to inherit their father's positions, especially when it was perceived as “prestigious.” And hybrids - though much greater in number from when her Sa-Kuk Spock - typically found better success off-world, especially in organizations like Starfleet.

For Surak’s sake, her own mother and uncle were targets in the infamous Logic Extremists Bombing that took place decades ago in the very Learning Center where T’Rama studies today.

And do not even get her started on treatment of the V’Tosh Ka’tur minority…!

“Yes,” she finally answers, her tone measured. T’Rama can feel his eyes on her but refuses to look at him, choosing to stack the defunct equipment from the lift against the wall. “However, this fact is well-documented and publicly known. May I ask why the subject of my genealogy is of interest to you in this very moment?”

Seval just stared at her, his dark eyes tracing her face. T’Rama suppresses an eye roll and walks past him. Logically, the faster she completes the task, the faster she can get away from this idiot. As she enters the closet, fully intent to load up the lift, she hears the door shut behind her. She turns and sees Seval with his back against the now closed door. 

“You did not allow me to answer.”

“It seemed you had no answer to give…” T’Rama replies, her hands gripping the lift’s handle tightly.

“I asked because I wondered if it had an impact on two things…” He begins to move towards her. For each step he takes, T’Rama takes two back.

“...which are?” She can retreat no further as her back hits the wall. Trapped, Seval leans in close and raises a hand to tug at an errant curl from her shoulder length bob.

“One, if it has informed your  _ pleasing  _ aesthetics-”

(“Of course it does, you fucking idiot,” T’Rama seethes in her mind. “Have you never seen my mother?!”)

“-and two, if it will make you more receptive to this.” Before T’Rama can ask Seval what he means, he grabs her by the face and presses his lips against her own. She squeals in surprise, struggling to turn away, but he has an iron grip. Everything is entirely too wet, too heavily scented by the plomeek soup they had for lunch, too “bitey!” It is as if he means to chew her lips from her face.

T’Rama raises her left arm and punches him as hard as she can. She continues to strike Seval until he finally lets go, stumbling backwards over the lift and onto his rump.

“Why did you do that?!” he shouts up at her, clutching at his rapidly bruising face.

“Because you attacked me, you k’nurt..!” she hollers back. The rumble of footsteps can be heard just outside the door, before it is yanked open. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Instructor T’Pem asks as she and two other instructors burst into the room. While the others help Seval up from the floor, T’Pem zeroes in on T’Rama.

“Everyone to the Administrator’s office,” she orders. “Immediately.”

~~~

Through her familial bond, T’Rama feels the full brunt of her parents’ unbridled anger. They sit opposite Seval's parents, who look equally enraged as they flank their own son.

“We checked surveillance and confirmed that Seval initiated contact-”

“Contact?” she hears her mother - Michael - scoff. “That boy  _ assaulted _ her.”

“ _ My son _ would never do such a thing,” his mother returns, tone pointed. “Perhaps your daughter overwhelmed him with her  _ human _ pheromones.”

“What an emotional, illogical, and speciesist accusation,” her mother shoots back. “Such basic xenobiology lessons are taught at Level One in any Learning Center. Perhaps you were absent that day?”

“And yet, her  _ assertion _ remains valid, Burnham…” Serval’s father enters the fray, his nostrils slightly flared. “Surely, you are aware of the rumors regarding yourself, the late V.E.G. Director, and your unprecedented promotion...”

A wave of shame rolls over T’Rama through their bond. From the corner of her eye, she can see her mother setting her jaw tightly.

“Your comments are disrespectful...” her father, Suvoj, finally speaks. The room goes immediately quiet. Seval’s parent's eyes go wide. He has not only thrown the gauntlet, but hurled it full force into their faces. “That man was being investigated for using his power to coerce subordinates into committing inappropriate, deviant acts at the risk of losing their livelihoods and hard-earned careers. Perhaps you two have imparted this philosophy onto your son? That he should not accept an individual’s autonomy and threaten them when they reject his advances?”

Seval’s parents are absolutely livid, their anger apparent within their dark, stony gaze.

“Everyone, if you would…” The chief administrator says, her tone urging calm. “As I was saying, our surveillance confirmed that T’Rama did not initiate physical contact nor did she do anything to encourage it. In fact, it shows she was forced to resort to violence to make Seval stop.” 

T’Rama glances at the great, green swath running along her classmate’s right cheek. Internally, she is rather proud of her left-hook.

“Seval, starting now, you are suspended for three full cycles and you will not be invited to return to the VLC before then,” she continues. The boy hangs his head so low, his bangs obscure his face. “You will continue your coursework from home.” She then turns to address T’Rama and her family. “In the future, you must report these issues rather than use violence. Understood?”

She nods. T’Rama and her parents thank the chief administrator for her assistance. As they leave Seval’s family behind to discuss the terms of his suspension, she can not help but wonder why she still feels partly to blame...

~~~

T’Rama spends the weekly cycle break at the Clan Estate. After morning meditation, she joins her grandparents in the sunning room.

“Rama-lama, what can I do to help you be at ease…?” ko’mehk’il Amanda coos. She strokes T’Rama curly hair as she rests her head in her ko’mehk’il’s lap. She wants to tell her that what she does now is more than enough. Even her sa’mehk’il shows her great empathy as he bites his tongue at her blatant emotional display. Proper Vulcans do not sulk, and they certainly do not ask for their grandmothers to whisper sweet words of encouragement.

( _ “I...I cannot stop thinking that my behavior encouraged Seval’s actions…” she thinks to herself. “That if I had behaved in a different way, he would not have tried to do that to me. It is very illogical, I know...but...” _ )

“I can make it look like an accident,” Krei Gabrielle offers, her cheery tone pulling T’Rama from her dark thoughts. She looks up and sees her carrying a tray with some tea and fruit. “All three of those  _ aushfa _ , in their sleep.” She snaps her fingers for emphasis after resting her burden on the table. “Gone.”

“No murder, Gabrielle...” Se’mehk’al Sarek chides from his seat in the corner of the room. He does not bother to look up from his PADD as he does so.

Then, there is a faint knock at the door. The room looks and sees B’aht, a family bodyguard, standing in the doorway. 

“Our young lady has a guest,” he announces, stepping to the side and revealing a still-bruised Seval. T’Rama practically scrambles out of her ko’mehk’il’s lap, slightly embarrassed that this k’nurt saw her acting so... _ human _ . She feels upset that even now, Seval steals another private moment away from her. 

The boy raises a ta’al in greeting, but no one bothers to return it.

Sarek seems to have lost all interest in his PADD now. He sets it aside as he stands, strolling over to their guest.

“Why have you come into my home?” he asks, drawing himself to his full, imposing height as Sarek stares down his nose at Seval. “Is it a perpetual habit of yours, to do as you please, uninvited?”

“N-no, s-sir…” he stammers, visibly wilting under her se’mehk’il’s glare. T’Rama watches as his gaze flits over to her. “If you would permit me to, I...would like to speak to your granddaughter...p-privately...please.”

And T’Rama does agree to it and soon finds herself standing in the middle of the garden walk. Her ko’mehk’il’s fountain gurgles pleasantly in the background, but it does little for the sense of unease building in her stomach.

“We have an audience,” she speaks, breaking the silence. Seval glances over his shoulder and sees her grandparents, her cousin, and bodyguard all standing in the sunroom window, watching.

“I will be brief,” Seval replies, folding his trembling hands behind his back as he turns back towards her. “I apologize. It was... _ I _ was wrong to kiss you without securing your permission prior.”

“Absolutely.”

“I was also wrong to assume that you would be receptive to said kiss due to the human aspects in your nature.”

“Obviously,” she returns, folding her arms across her chest. “It was a very strange and illogical assumption to make. Humans absolutely agree that your behavior was unacceptable.”

He nods, his eyes still focused on the ground. Seval is the opposite of the smug jerk who tried to eat her face off in the utility closet three days ago. Now, he is just like a little boy, digging the toe of his boot into the red earth, unable to meet T’Rama’s gaze for even a few seconds.

She clamps down on the urge to reassure him that everything will be fine. It is  _ not _ fine. Nor will she assume any responsibility for easing tensions she did not create. 

She will not tell Seval that perhaps his romantic intentions should be turned towards T’Les, who watches his every move from afar like a love-lorn, little fool. Honestly, she is doing the poor girl a favor, especially because he kisses like a krovill. 

She will not tell him that one day they could be friends, because she does not mean it now and she is not sure if she will mean it then.

T’Rama accepts that she does not need to be the peacemaker here. At this moment, she understands her only role is to allow herself to move on.

“Do not ever do that again, to anyone,” is all she says. She does not wait for his reply, as she walks back to the house, leaving Seval to stand alone.


	14. Day 28: Severe Illness, Photo/Camera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncle Spock is not feeling well, so T’Rama sends him a special video to make him feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) HEY! HEY! SHE DOES NOT/DID NOT WATCH THE VIDEO!
> 
> 2) Sex tape is accidentally distributed by a minor WHO DID NOT WATCH IT. A hope of pseudo-incest that doesn't happen.

It was his first Pon Farr and he was without a mate. 

“You were unable to reach out to me, because I have successfully petitioned for the dissolution of our bond,” T’Pring states, her tone as icy as her expression. Stonn stands behind her, his dark eyes watching Spock’s suffering with equal indifference. “I have returned the bride price to the Ambassador. So, you must endure on your own.”

“You are...a most _heinous_ creature…” Spock grinds out between clenched teeth, fingers nearly digging into the edge of his desk. He darts his blood-shot eyes towards Stonn: “And to you, know that having is not so pleasing a thing after all as wanting.” 

T’Pring simply shrugs and then she ends the call, leaving him to suffer alone. He flops back into the desk chair.

With this all important avenue now closed to him, Spock fears his Pon Farr will soon become Plak-tow. His loins literally burn as he folds in on himself, knees knocking together painfully when the desire to mate - to _fuck_ \- overwhelms him. The experimental holodeck is still under construction. Sick bay doctors offer to discreetly assist him, but if he were to succumb to blood fever, they would only be at risk.

So, the only path left to him is meditation. Spock reaches for his lamp and lights it. Its flame flickering with each reedy breath. As he folds his shaky hands in his lap, head bowed, his comm pings. Rage escapes as a hiss from his sweaty lips. He looks and sees a correspondence from his niece:

_Spock Sa-Kuk:_

_Ko’mehk says that Mr. Captain Christopher Pike says that you are sick. Logically, you should take medicines and see a doctor. But also sometimes when I am f ~~eel~~_ ~~_bad_~~ _dissatisfied, I watch holos and that makes me relaxed and_ ~~_happy_~~ _satisfied. I attached a special holo that will make you feel better. I overheard Sa’mehk say to Ko’mehk that he likes to watch this because it reminds him that his adun’a is generous and considerate._

_I have never watched it because it was in the ‘growns-up only’ holo folder file, but you are a grown-up and logically you should watch grown-up holos. I hope it is not scary but you are very brave and strong and logical, so I do not think you will be scared._

_You should recover quickly, so we can play again together when you visit Vulcan._

_Our bond is strong,_

_T’Rama_

_P.S. I submitted a formal petition for a sehlat to Ko’mehk and Sa’mehk. I turned 5 Earth years old last week and I am very logical and I do my chores and I will care for it. Your support in this matter is appreciated._

Numerous syntax errors and overuse of the word “logical,” actually make him laugh. He cackles, fully now in the clutches of Pon Farr, as Spock feels amused by her (thoughtful) antics. He clasps his hands over his smiling mouth, stifling his laughter. His niece is such a precocious, empathetic girl. He loves her as well, but as a son of Sarek, he can never say so. 

When he finds his calm, Spock downloads the holo and opens it. 

As the first few seconds begin to play, he assumes it is a sort of “homemade holo” as the opening scene is just his sister and her husband standing in their bedroom. They speak about innocuous things - housework, gardening, childcare, arranging visits with the latter’s extended family. While this goes on, Suvoj makes adjustments to the camera, testing the lighting, making sure their bed was in frame. Spock’s brow furrows.

And then, they move to sit on the bed together, where their words take on a more amorous tone. Spock pauses it, his breathing growing erratic. Michael - caught mid-pose with her arms crossed, the bottoms of her soft breasts peeking out from beneath her tunic as she lifts it.

“C-computer, level 10 privacy dampeners. Captain’s override only,” Spock sputters feverishly. AS a boy, the few times he caught her and Sybok “experimenting” as a boy, he jealously wished he could trade places with his older brother and be the one to make her writhe and scream his name. And when he suffered that unfortunate assault from her inter-dimensional imposter, to his shame, it only made those feelings stronger. 

T’Rama deserves an entire herd of sehlats for her inadvertent act of generosity. Or, she deserves to be “grounded” for contributing to an running galactic gag that he will only every fuck an approximation of Michael and never the real woman herself... 

Gingerly, Spock stores his picture of his mother in the desk drawer and locks it shut. His hands make quick work of his belt, pants, socks, and shoes as he tosses them all aside. His erection is angry, pressing against his stomach like a brand pulled from the fire. He wraps his fingers around his manhood, giving it a few experimental pumps as he settles into his chair. Before he resumes the holo, he orders the computer to pixelate Suvoj’s face. There is no point in ruining _his_ fantasy.

“Resume.” 

Michael removes her top, watching her pert but slightly more generous breasts bounce as she undresses. She is firmer than she was after T’Rama’s birth, but the flesh that clings to her feminine curves jiggles pleasantly as she frees herself of her clothing. He feels precum leaking onto his fingers as she slides her panties down over her soft, inviting backside. He yearns to sink his teeth into Michael’s shoulder as he rides her curves towards their mutual ecstasy. 

“K’diwa, would you allow me to use my mouth?” she offers, her round, dark eyes as she plays innocent. ~~Her husband~~ He says nothing, flopping backward onto the bed. Michael moves to lay across his abdomen. With one hand, she takes hold of his shaft, while the other moves to cradle his scrotum. Her full lips press a series of gentle kisses against ~~Suvoj’s~~ Spock’s tip before they envelope it. 

The sounds of her suction send fire through every fiber. Spock fucks his hand as ~~his~~ ~~brother-in-law~~ _they_ fuck her mouth. _They_ groan, holding Michael’s head still as _their_ hips thrusting himself fully into her now. She gags, adjusting until _he_ slides in and out of her throat, her throat pressed-painfully flat against his curls with each pass. 

He just fucks her - there is nothing but sounds of her struggling to breath and his moans. Her mouth is hers; her body just a thing to elevate his most carnal need. Her willingness to please him only makes him rut into his hand - her mouth even harder. 

Spock cries out and shoots his load into her throat. Michael does her best to swallow what she can but she still gags. A violent snort causes some of his semen to stream from her nostril, her face scrunched up in a somewhat pained expression. He releases her and Michael pulls away, her hands cupped around her mouth as she struggles against every reflex to vomit everything up. Tears pinprick the corners of her tightly shut eyes as she chokes it down. 

Proudly, she opens her mouth wide, tongue splayed to show him. 

And then the video cuts out. 

Spock pants hard, having emptied himself across the desk’s surface. His semen spreads outward, flowing out into tinier rivulets that threaten to spill over its edge. 

“Computer…” he groans, wiping away the sheer curtain of sweat on his brow. “Restart holo…”

After the tenth time, Spock is thoroughly spent. His uniform shirt is ruined, soaked in semen that coats his stomach. He rises onto shaky legs to head to his sonic shower, tossing his shirt into a waste receptacle. He has the replicator rations to make a new one. No loss.

As he climbs into the stall, as the cold cascades over him, his P.A. whistles to life:

“Spock, this is Captain Pike. Just...checking in. You ok, Spock?”

Christopher is the father he has always wanted. His concerned tone inexplicably eases his symptoms. “I...am recovering...slowly, sir.”

“Good to know you are still with us,” Pike returns. He can hear the smile in his voice. “Take all the time you need. I have the engineers working triple time on the holodecks. They should be up by 0600 and they are all yours, my favorite S.O.”

“Understood, sir.” This is true as the hellfire in his belly is now a candlewick’s flame.

He turns the shower off, dries off, and dresses in record time. Spock sets to clean off his desk, wiping away every bit of himself left behind, until the entire thing is left polished and glowing. He sinks into his chair and opens a new correspondence on his PADD, addressing it to his sister:

_Michael,_

_You and your bondmate need better parental controls re: my niece’s media access. I also recommend that you more closely monitor T’Rama’s correspondences and immediately delete the one that she sent to me at 1248 hours._

_Do not punish your daughter for_ **_your_ ** _failure as a parent._

_Spock_

_P.S. I will arrange for the delivery of a sehlat to your residence, as T’Rama clearly needs some sort of adult supervision._


	15. Day 17: Drugged, Misery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybok is the family fuck up, through and through. But Michael still loves him anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Drug use, consensual sex, pseudo-incest

When he emerges from his sonic shower, Sybok can still hear Sarek’s low, rumbling voice scolding Michael next door. Well-behaved daughters do not break their curfew to sneak up to the roofs to smoke Gal-en-du’un and run around with wayward sons. She should know better. How can he trust her? What would other people think?

All of the guilt-trip driven parenting’s great hits for her convenience and castigation. 

As he dresses, Sybok finds her silence deafening. He pictures Michael sitting there - shaky hands folded tightly in her lap, head bowed low so their father will not see her budding tears as Sarek tears into her for her many, many faults. 

It makes him want to laugh. His Human daughter is exactly the Vulcan child he wants them to be. And then, his lecture stops. Sybok sighs, knowing he is the next destination on Sarek’s tour.

Sure enough, his door creaks open and Sarek comes right on in - no courtesy knock, no greeting. And without delay, he lays into him: “As the eldest, you must serve as an example for your younger siblings. Using recreational drugs and keeping your younger sister up past curfew is both illogical and an example of poor judgement. You must-”

Unlike his late Uncle Silek, he will not be lectured and shamed into submission. And he does not bother to hide the disgust for Sarek’s condescension.

“Michael is not my sister. She is my friend,” he shoots back, rolling his eyes. Sarek starts at this openly emotional display. “Therefore, I care not for your words.”

His father frowns. “Your response is illogical and disrespectful.”

“Naturally,” Sybok replies with a sneer. “Perhaps that is because tonight, I am now of age, and you have yet to acknowledge it.” 

He can see the gears turning inside his father’s head as he processes what Sybok has shared with him. 

“...birthdays are an illogical human concept,” his father returns slowly, his brow now wrinkled in confusion. “Vulcans do not-”

“Yes, how illogical it must be for a Vulcan or any species to mark an anniversary of a _loved_ one,” he answers sarcastically. “After all, it only took you several years to acknowledge my existence in the first place.”

His father simply stares at him, his jaw moving infinitesimally as Sarek formulates another infuriating response, no doubt. It must hurt knowing his marital bond with T’Rea was so weak, that she managed to hide his own child from him for three years. Sybok smiles as he can see the vein along Sarek’s temple throbs. 

“You may do as you please,” his father speaks after a brief, tense silence. “...but you may not do it in our family home. As you are now an adult, I must...invite you to leave.”

So be it. This is Sarek’s home, and since T’Rea’s death, Sybok considers himself no one’s son.

“Then, I shall take up your invitation, _Sarek_.”

For the first time in his young life, his father actually _looks_ hurt.

(Good.)

~~~

On his way out, Sybok steals his mother’s katra container from the Temple of Ancient Thought. T’Sai does not even bother sending the guards after him. In fact, she gives him a small fortune in credits and tells him to keep running until Eridani is another glowing dot in the unending tapestry of stars. Leave it to her to be poetic about committing literal felonies... 

So, Sybok uses his mother’s teachings to start a cult in deep space, and for the next ten years, they search for her beloved paradise of Sha-Ka-Ree.

But his Galactic Army of Light never finds it. 

Well, in the so-called “Center of the Universe,” they did get pretty close. They found an annoying ethereal entity trapped within a parallel dimension. He demanded they forfeit one of their convoy ships in order to escape its prison, to which, when Sybok asked him why a “god” would need a ship and not just use its own godly powers, the creature began to spout some wild threats. 

So, they move on. Because honestly? Fuck that guy.

Sybok’s cult turns into a commun and they ferry their goods to planets in need. They trade food and livestock for every hard drug in the known universe: 

Curial dust lets them dream while awake; Clarinoxamine fuels many orgies (and heart attacks.); Anesthizine puts them to sleep when the Tricordrazine will not let their furitative minds rest.

But most importantly, Sybok's continuously drug-induced state helps him keep Sarek’s needling at bay as his father yanks at their familial bond every other day. 

To off-worlders, the practice of Tokmar sounds romantic: Vulcans literally call to the souls of their wayward loved-ones, beseeching them to return home. However, to Sybok, it is nothing more than a test of his woefully thin patience after a decade of Sarek’s unceasing nagging:

(“Amanda is being honored by the Federation for her improvements on the Universal Translator. Return to witness.”)

(“Great for her, but no thank you.”)

(“Spock will enter the VSA come the springtime. He requests your presence.”)

(“Congratulations, but I will pass.”)

(“Michael and her bondmate expect a daughter this winter. She _must_ meet her uncle.”)

Sybok has no right to this jealousy that washes over him. Michael loved him but was not in love with him as he had wished. When he fled, she refused to go with him, insisting that she would fulfill Sarek’s insane dream for her. 

(“How is she doing?” he asks, quietly hoping that he was able to suppress his envy and anger.)

(“Her pregnancy has presented some difficulties, but mother and child remain strong. Michael has had trouble sleeping lately.”)

Sybok does not respond. He orders an attendant to send Michael some Gal-en-du’un. In the days after, she sends a note and a holopicture. She lays in her bed, smoking his gift with a smile, her hands resting on her round belly… 

And then, he sees _him_. Reflected in the bedroom mirror, taking a picture of his wife, stands Michael’s bondmate. Sybok wants to say he is a Vulcan of no import or appeal, but he is very handsome. And to his dismay, he is also a Vulcan who is clearly very permissive of his human wife's human behaviors. Irrationally, he wants to put his fist through his beautiful, passive face.

That night, Sybok ingests a full vial of Curial Dust, completely severing his tie to Sarek. He chases everything with chocolate. Several hours later, after passing out between his Orion companions, he is admitted to the nearest hospital.

~~~

Sarek stands in the doorway, a mass of emotionlessness and sweeping robes. He is holding a tray with a pitcher of water and glasses. Sybok does his best not to retch as his concern envelopes him.

“You were unconscious for three point five-seven-two days,” his father explains as he approaches his bedside. As he rests the tray on his side table, Sybok notes the white hairs along his temples and nape. He has quite a few new wrinkles too. “You nearly died from an overconsumption of controlled substances. How illogical.”

“It is logical and necessary to do what I must to keep you out of my mind,” Sybok grumbles, struggling to sit up right. His father helps him, adjusting his pillows to support his back. “You are the worst father in the entire quadrant.”

“Another one of your highly emotional exaggerations,” Sarek returns, evenly. He pours a glass of water and presses it into Sybok’s outstretched palm. “Romulans force their children to fight to the death. Surely, I was never so cruel to you or any of your siblings.”

Sybok rolls his eyes.

“You threw me out…” he seethes quietly, the glass whining underneath his tightening grip.

“ _You left on your own accord_.”

“After you _invited_ me to.”

Sarek sighs. The lines in his face deepen as he moves to sink into the nearest seat. And Sybok is not entirely sure what creeks louder, the chair or his father’s bones.

“Sy-kam,” Sarek begins slowly. Sybok blinks, eyes wide - he has not been called that name since he wore a Learning Center Uniform. “...I object, then you call me controlling. Do as you please, then I am negligent. Any attempt to negotiate a balance is met with resistance. What an impossible paradox all parents must face…”

Leave it to his father to make this about himself. 

“I am not,” Sarek says suddenly. Sybok starts, realizing he projected this thought in his weakened state. His father continues: “This matter is solely about you and how you left on your own accord become the man you desired. So, what sort of man are you now, after the many years we have been apart?”

~~~

He was unable to answer Sarek then. And now, as he makes an appearance for his niece’s third birthday, Sybok is not sure he can answer his father now. 

T'Rama is a beautiful little girl - her complexion, brown eyes, curly hair, and heart-shaped face are all gifts from Michael. But she has Suvoj’s typical Vulcanian ears and eyebrows. Quietly, Sybok is livid with himself for feeling “relieved” that his niece can pass as one of his own. 

The only guests in attendance are family: Michael, Suvoj (her mate), his step-mother, his father, his in-laws. Spock is flying around the Alpha Quadrant but still made time to send T’Rama the largest stuffed sehlat he has ever seen.

It is a simple party: Amanda has made an amazing vegetarian spread and an equally delicious looking vegan birthday cake. She slaps Sybok’s hand away when he attempts to steal some fruit topping. They play games and do dances that are familiar to T’Rama from her preschool classes. The entire time, she is nothing but peels of laughter, sparsely toothed smiles, and shouts of joy. 

It causes a visceral reaction within Sybok as he watches her - some horrifying need to snatch her up and scold her for the emotions she so openly displays. But to his shock, none of the other full-blooded Vulcans seem to mind. In fact, his own father sways minutely as T’Rama recites a nursery rhyme about the Surak’s teachings. 

Sybok retreats to the refreshments table to calm down, where he finds his brother-in-law reaching for the samovar of iced water. He nods politely at him as he approaches.

“Your daughter emotes,” Sybok comments as Suvoj passes him some water before pouring another for himself. 

“She is half human and a child. Therefore, she needs to emote,” he replies easily, before taking a long sip. The slight satisfied smack of his lips as they part from his glass surprises Sybok. He cannot tell if this is how he is or if he is simply mimicking human behaviors to put the others at ease. Either way, an odd, tight sensation pulls in the center of Sybok’s chest. “Logically, she is allowed to do so at least within the confines of her own home and amongst her own family.”

“I am surprised that your parents, my father approves...”

“Their approval is irrelevant. T’Rama is _my_ daughter.” Suvoj has a _tone_ , which gives Sybok further pause. “Michael says you are essentially a v’tosh ka’tur. So, why do you object to her upbringing?”

Suvoj is correct. He _should_ not. And he should not be upset that their family supports her.

Sybok turns to look at his niece. T’Rama giggles and tangles herself up in Sarek’s robes as she races around him, avoiding his capture. There is no reprimand, no solemn looks, when his father finally scoops her up and presses his brow against hers.

He feels it is almost illogical until he remembered that they had once done the same. The thoughts and feelings they shared between them, fueling the bond T’Rea orchestrated to never come to be.

He knows his truth is harsh a one: Sybok is envious of this little hybrid girl, like the pathetic creature he is...

~~~

After the party, Suvoj takes T’Rama to spend the rest of the cycle break with his parents. Amanda and Sarek also say their goodbyes, leaving Sybok completely alone with Michael. He helps her clear and take down the tables, store the leftovers, load dishes into the replicator. All the while, they chat, catching up on each other’s lives. 

And Sybok is wholly impressed. Michael has become an ideal Vulcanian woman.

“Excellent grades. Academic honors. Great job. And you have a Vulcan bondmate and have his child?” he teased. “Your father must be proud.”

“ _Our_ father is proud of all of us,” Michael protests as she programs the sweeper. It zips off across the floor as she stands and wipes her hands on her apron front. “You started a humanitarian aid society and your efforts helped dozens of Bajoran refugee camps survive famines caused by Cardassian blockades. That is an extraordinary accomplishment, Sybok...”

He laughs nervously as Michael’s eyes burrow into his own. “I mean, yes, but it is a just failed cult turned into a commune… Honestly, we just farm and do alot of drugs-”

“-and have tons of uninhibited sex, no doubt.” A smirk breaks through Michael’s stony countenance. She giggles a bit, her smirk forming into a winning smile. Sybok's heart begins to beat a little too rapidly as he is reminded of how beautiful she is…

“...n-no doubt...” he stammers, his cheeks suddenly warm. They laugh together and it feels like they are back in Sarek’s house, stealing sips of Amanda’s Andorian brandy from her study. Michael chuckles a bit more before she reaches out to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Sybok swallows down the urge to kiss her as his hands settle on her hips.

“Would you return?” she asks, staring up into his eyes. “Would you stay?”

“No, not to stay...” he admits. “...but I wish to visit my niece from time-to-time, with your permission.”

"Granted.”

~~~

To his dismay, nothing more happens in the kitchen. Yet, Sybok accepts her invitation to stay for the night, because he is in no rush to return to his commune right away. They observe evening meditation and, afterward, Michael makes a spiced Kh’aa blend he really loves. All the while, they behave as the prim-and-proper Vulcans Sarek raised them to be.

That is until they head for bed...

Sybok’s ears twitch as they catch several soft taps against the guest room door. He opens it and finds his former foster sister standing there, dressed with _only_ her incredible smile. She is clearly a woman now: her curves are fuller, but he sees hard-earned muscle lying just beneath the surface. Sybok drags Michael across the threshold and all but tosses her onto his bed.

She laughs, scrambling backward as he undresses at record speed. Playfully, he grabs her ankle and drags her back toward him. The tangle together, pressing their mouths with a hunger fueled by their years apart. She still tastes like their cake - sweet, heady. As he settles down on top of her, his hand slides between her legs as he begins to work at her folds, occasionally brushing gently against her clitoris. He relishes each moan Michael emits into his seeking mouth. She reaches for him too, her fingertips sliding beneath his foreskin to tease his tip until they are wet with precum.

Sybok groans as she moves her slicked fingers to work the length of his shaft. She is attentive - one hand works to tug at him, the other, she uses to continue to massage his tip, pressing the pad of her thumb against his leaking slit.

Returning the favor, he sticks a finger inside of her. She instantly draws him into the bottom knuckle, her walls contracting pleasantly around his digit as he strokes her. He adds a second and then a third. Michael gasps, her head thrown back as her hips begin to rock.

As he makes to nibble at the column of her exposed throat, Michael hands fall away, moving to . shove at his chest until Sybok rolls onto his back. 

“I just got my contraceptive injection and inoculations last week,” he says breathlessly as she climbs on top of him. 

“You had better…” Michael teases, rubbing his tip against her folds as she lines him up with her entrance. She sits back onto her heels, until she sits on him fully. She feels so soft, so hot around his shaft - a sensation, while not wholly unfamiliar from all of his many, many encounters while traveling the galaxy, never brought with it such unbridled _joy_. 

Sybok lies back, watching as Michael rides him. Her breasts are so much fuller than the sandworm bites he used to tease her about when they were younger. He is mesmerized briefly, watching as they swing and bounce hypnotically. Sybok palms at them, gently squeezing their softness with eager hands. He pinches her nipples, rolling them between the pads of his fingers until they are stiff. Michael parts her invitingly full lips as she moans and he leans upward to devour them. 

As they break apart, Sybok lifts her easily and flips them over, onto her back. Without delay, he begins to piston into her. He is not Suvoj as he has no intentions of being gentle. He fucks Michael hard like they are young again, like he is not fresh from a full year of rehab, like he is not taking fistfuls of pills for every organ he has ruined. She yelps a bit, digging her nails into his shoulder, her ankles locking over the small of his back.

“I...could...die...like this…!” he groans as he thrust wildly into Michael.

“T-thank you, b-but please d-don’t…!”

There is nothing but grunts, groans, and the loud clangor of the headboard against the wall for what feels like an eternity. He plows into her so vigorously that a relief of Surak’s tenants falls to the floor. (Sybok decides to appreciate the irony later.) 

Michael shudders and arches against him, her full lips fluttering as she orgasms. He feels he is not far behind. 

“W-wait…” she begs, panting heavily as she weakly presses her hands against his shoulders. “S-stop…” It takes everything he has, but Sybok does. He is only mildly disappointed when she helps guide him from her delicious warmth and strokes him to completion across her abdomen. Idly, he admires the several thick ribbons of semen unfurling over her dark skin... 

“Been awhile, huh…?” Michael teases, as she wipes her stomach clean with a corner of a sheet. Sybok snorts as he moves to lay with her, intertwining his legs with her own. He places several kisses along her jaw, relishing the taste of her sweat. If he were a Klingon, he would have sunk his teeth into her cheek to mark her, to own her. 

She pushes his face away. “I belong to myself.”

“Clearly…” He feels shame for having failed to suppress that thought. “Is that why you stray from your bondmate?”

Michael shakes her head. 

“Our open marriage is based on the understanding that we cannot nor should be obligated to fulfill every sexual need. It is neither logical nor possible,” she explains, running her hand along his chest, letting her fingers tangle themselves in his hair. “...though we rarely exercise that...privilege.”

“Oh?” 

He is surprised. Polyamory is rather difficult for Vulcans, given their telepathy. Too many voices, too many needs, too many _emotions_. Suvoj is, in many ways, the man his father should have been to Spock and to Amanda. 

“So, how many notches are on your post-marital bedpost?” He is genuinely curious, as afterall, Sybok needs to know what competition lays ahead.

“Well, _you_...and I did attend an all-female orgy with T’Pring a couple of years ago. I had sex with a really bossy Tellarite...”

Sybok cackles loudly. And Michael starts to giggle too.

“W-we are s-still friends to this day…!” she blurts out between peels of laughter. “Her name is Tezra…!”

“What about your bondmate?”

“Only one encounter that I know of.”

“With who?” Her bondmate is very attractive, so he finds it hard to believe Suvoj has only strayed once. He searches Michael’s mischievous brown eyes for an answer, but she says nothing, and leans in for another kiss. 

And while this does not answer his question, Sybok is more than happy to return it.


	16. Day 30: Caregiver, Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Suvoj are trying for a second kid and it really, really sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W: Miscarriages. ALL WHUMP, NO KINK.
> 
> Rekan = Third Child
> 
> T'Pan = Lady Who Considers
> 
> Soval = from the honored, beloved one

The third attempt ends in another miscarriage. He lays there beside her - his parted lips never drew breath, his eyes never opened. Michael watches as Amanda pulls a sheet over his tiny face before she carries him off. 

Michael did not feel numb. Numbness was wading waist deep through mud - heavy, slow, cloying. What she felt was nothing - a complete absence of all sensation.

Her mother-in-law, T’Pan, calls to her from the doorway. Michael watches her mouth move but her words do not register. Nor does she realize that T’Pan has crossed the room to sit beside her on the birthing bed. Something takes hold of her chin, turning her head and holds it there until Michael realizes she is staring into another pair of eyes. For once, they hold warmth and the threat of tears.

“ _My daughter_ , I grieve with thee,” T’Pan states, her voice wavering despite her neutral tone. “You have already greatly honored us not once but twice - as a wife to my son and as a mother to our T’Rama.” 

Her hands shift, releasing her chin to cup her face as T’Pan floods her mind’s eye with images of _their_ little girl. She is happy and smiling and laughing and playing and joyful...

But all Michael can see - just there beyond the images of her daughter - are three faces. 

So small. Gone still. Long cold. 

~~~

They bury Rekan next to the others beneath the rose bushes.

“I will not have you try again, adun'a,” Suvoj says, his voice tight, gruff. He runs his broad hands across the pile of dirt, making it smooth. “It will only invite further risk to your health.”

“Unfortunately, you married a very stubborn woman…” Michael mutters. 

“Oh, of that I am well aware,” he teases. Her husband stands, wiping his soil-covered hands on his half-apron. He strides back over to her, and holds two fingers aloft. “And I have done some research on a possible alternative. Do you trust me?”

Michael nods and responds in-kind, laying her fingers across his.

~~~

“Surrogacy?” Gabrielle asks, her hands pausing mid-stitch. As her ridged brow furrows deeply in thought, Michael distractedly wonders what she is even knitting. “You want _me_ , of all people, to carry your baby for you?”

“Yes, w-well…” she stammers. “We understand this is a very big ask--”

“--and there will be some difficulties and you will be required to take a leave from the VDF,” Suvoj explains. 

“However, you will be generously compensated,” assures Michael. She finally feels numb. It is a step in the right direction at least. 

“Ok, sure,” Gabrielle agrees easily with a shrug. She taps something on her PADD and within seconds Suvoj’s comm pings.

“What is it?” asks Michael as she peers over her husband’s shoulder.

“My bank transfer codes…” her interdimensional twin states without looking up as she resumes her knitting. “Send me the first payment. And then, forward me the calendar appointments and we’ll go from there.” 

She shoos them away with a wave of her hand. Confused, but delighted, Michael and Suvoj take their leave.

~~~

Soval is indescribably perfect and all wrapped up in the blanket Gabrielle made for him. 

Such a sneaky telepath. 

“He is...very...small…” T’Rama’s comment comes off more as a question. Michael watches as she extends a finger and gently pokes her newborn brother on the tip of his nose. He gurgles, releasing a large spit bubble from his little mouth. “Are you both certain about him, ko’mehk, sa’mehk? He is very...wet…?”

Michael and Amanda laugh. The others look content. Suvoj gently pats T’Rama on the head. 

“Dungi du spo' tor meskaraya wuh kan-bu, t'nash-veh, Rama-kam?” her maternal-grandfather, Balev,  whose universal translator is always on the fritz, asks. 

T’Rama nods. They make her sit in the chair. T’Pan positions her arms to make sure Soval’s head is properly supported.

“Say ‘thuhk,’ Rama-lama!” Amanda says with a smile, holding her PADD aloft. Her granddaughter simply looks confused instead as she takes her picture.


	17. Day 22: Ice, Friendly-fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Deputy Director T’Risa attend an exchange program on Andorian. They learn they have some (uncomfortable) things in common.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Whump with a drop of kink. Friendly-fire. Gun use. Someone almost drowns. Discussion about a potential/attempted rape. Hinted at sexual-assault, sexual harassment, exploitation of workers, etc.
> 
> Pre-Suvoj and the kids. Assistant!Burnham at the VEG days.

“No,” comes Director Seyhan’s monosyllabic reply. He rests his tea cup a little too firmly on Burnham’s outstretched tray. She stumbles slightly, trying to keep the rest of its contents from sliding off. This earns the poor thing an annoyed sigh as the Director waves her away like a sandfly. However, Deputy Director T’Risa does not miss it when he nearly cuts the corners of his beady eyes to watch her trot off. 

“And may I ask why not, sir?”

“Because she cannot afford the time to go to Andor. I need my assistant _here_.”

T’Risa frowns. Burnham is a recipient of the Vulcan Scientific Legion of Honor, now reduced to a servant girl. She sets her jaw firmly and turns her gaze back to her superior. “Sir, all V.E.G. members undergo routine securities and defensive training every six months. And Ms. Burnham has high proficiency rates in marksmanship and firearms-”

Seyhan holds up his hand and she falls silent. She hates it. T’Risa is not a rambunctious sehlat pup or a child.

“Then, logically, she has no need to attend this seminar,” he counters, folding his wizened hands on his lap. “Her work _here_ takes precedence.”

T’Risa scoffs, earning herself a cutting glare. “Sir, surely there are others that can takeover her ‘ _duties_.’” 

As the Director parts his lips to protest, Burnham suddenly appears and interjects: “Sir, I have already completed the translations for your upcoming conference presentation, and the verified the citations for your quarterly publications, and made all of the annotations for your-” 

“Go,” Seyhan concedes, not bothering to look at her. The young woman bows and retreats to her station. As T’Risa swallows a smile as he tilts his chin and leans in close.

“Make sure nothing happens to Sarek’s little human pet...” he mutters darkly, his dark eyes piercing. “I shall _need_ her _soon_ , as you know.”

Vulcans always had a nasty habit of underestimating human senses. She glances at Burnham, who seems busy typing away on her console. By Surak, she is a gorgeous little creature. She lingers on the curve of her profile, admiring the cute curve of her nose and her full lips. It makes her stomach turn at the thought of this wrinkled, old le’matya putting his claws on her...

It does not matter. He will always get away with it. 

So, T’Risa turns back towards Seyhan and nods.

“Understood, sir...”

~~~

Instructor Shryala is a very serious, studious looking Andorian woman. Her seminar is even more rigorous. And their surroundings impossibly unforgiving. Andor is nothing but ice and things lurking in ice that want to kill you. 

So, naturally, they spend seven days hiking along the edges of the Northern Wastes, where the things that want to kill you have fangs longer than a small child. Shrayala orders them to pick off small game for target practice. If they want to eat, then their aim better be good. An excellent but motivator for most. As Suraki Vulcans, T’Risa and Burham slaughter their fair share of icicles and tree branches and eat Andorian root soup instead.

On their eighth day, they reach a valley one mountain over from Andoria. After setting up camp by a frozen-over lake, Instructor Shryala orders them to gather by its shore.

“This phaser rifle is a prototype fresh from the Federation…!” Shryala announces. “So, we are going to test these bad boys out today as a favor. I’ll need you all to practice our trigger safety protocols - partner-up and follow me onto the lake.”

“Why?” a shivering Ferengi stammers around their pointed, chattering teeth. “Can’t we just practice here?”

Shryala smiles, her antennae twitching with excitement: “You still wanna eat tonight, don’tcha?”

She instructs them to pair-up as they travel over the ice. T’Risa decides to give her colleague some space as Burnham teams up with a chatty Bolian female. 

“Unwieldy,” her Tellarite companion grumbles. He is a tiny, wrinkled thing and he wiggles his snout in distaste as he positions the rifle’s butt against his shoulder. “The kickback on these things must be intolerable…”

“How could you have drawn such a conclusion, having never fired one?” T’Risa challenges him. Without waiting for his answer, she fires several rounds, piercing the thick ice with surprising ease.

“You didn’t hit anything!” he snaps. 

“Because I did not want to…” 

Her companion snorts and takes aim. The first few rounds are successful - his efforts yield three fish floating upward onto their backs. He cheers as is logical given he has secured his dinner. But then the Tellurite loses his footing mid-celebration. As he crashes onto the ice, his rifle discharges and T’Risa barely rolls out of its way before she is nearly hit.

And then, someone cries out. 

She turns and sees Michael slipping beneath the frozen surface. And like that, she is swallowed up and gone.

Everything is a blur. T’Risa finds herself bounding across the ice. The panicked shouts of their team fill the air. She skids to a stop where Michael fell. Roaring, T’Risa releases her full strength breaking through the ice in several blows, sending large chunks of ice flying up in her ferocious wake. Her knuckles are green with blood, several fingers on each hand suffering fractures, but she does not stop until she pulls Michael from the inky depths. 

Without hesitation, she seals her lips over hers, breathing air into her lungs between reps of chest compressions. After what feels like forever, Michael heaves and coughs up mouthfuls of icy water over her purpling lips. T’Risa strips off the young woman’s wet clothing, sending each layer slapping against the ice as it is discarded. Shryala drapes a blanket over her body as she gathers her prone, trembling form into Michael’s arms.

“Get her in the tent…! Hurry...!” 

Shryala does not need to tell her twice. T’Risa is already half way back to camp before she can finish her sentence.

~~~

She tosses her Vulcanian modesty aside like her own clothes. T’Risa climbs into Michael’s sleeping pallet and presses against every inch of her (distractingly supple) skin she can. She feels her own warmth leaving her as it siphones the cold from Michael’s body. After an hour, her skin finally returns to its rich umber hue. T’Risa turns over her hands to examine her fingers, watching the purple seep away from their tips.

When she is sufficiently warmed, Shryala brings them root broth and tea.

“You’re recovering nicely. But I will still ask medical to be here in the morning,” the Instructor states, waving the tricorder across Michael’s body.

“I r-ruined your t-t-training,” Michael mutters grimly. “Please f-forgive me.” T’Risa notes how her voice is eerily soft, reedy.

Shryala shakes her head. “Unlike that idiot Tellurite, you got all high marks. Sleep well, Burnham.” She leaves and they hear her barking immediately at the stragglers outside of their tent.

Michael shivers again and T’Risa wraps her arms around her.

“I...I am also sorry, Deputy D-Director…” 

“Why do you apologize?” Logically, there was no need. Michael shifts within her grasp, turning to rest her cheek against T’Risa’s clavicle. She loops an arm just under her breasts. 

“One c-chance to prove my worth...and I nearly d-died...” she grumbles miserably. “...once you r-report to D-Director Seyhan...he w-will never allow me to leave his s-sight again…”

No amount of Suraki mental discipline will keep T’Risa’s guilt from eating her like a krovill devouring a fresh carcass. Pressed skin-to-skin with their emotions running high after a near-death experience, it would take very little to let slip Seyhan’s ill-intentions through her touch telepathy. If Michael only knew his plan for her. If she only knew how many others Seyhan had done this to... 

“Ma’am, I _already_ know.” T’Risa starts at Michael’s sudden confession. She cranes her head to look into her eyes, but she will not meet her gaze. With a sigh, she continues: “I know Seyhan’s Pon Farr soon approaches. I know he intends to engineer a situation that will prevent him from returning to Vulcan. I know he will force me to help him through it as he has done to others before.”

T’Lan. Sobek. Arev. T’Vei. All of them were poor Vulcans desperate to escape the unspoken hierarchy covered up by the veneer of their so-called meritocracy. But all still victims just the same. Arev is gone now. She read the report and it was, as humans say, pure bullshit. 

His being torn apart by wild sehlat was by design, not by accident. 

Before she can even ask Michael how she knows this, she gives her a wry smile: “Humans may not have Vulcanian hearing, but we can still hear adequately enough...” And then, Michael finally breaks. T'Risa watches as several roll tear over the crests of her cheeks. Gently, she wipes away a few of them. 

“Please, resign,” she begs her. “So, you do not have to endure this abuse...”

“If I do, then Seyhan and the council will use it as an excuse to deny entry to other non-Vulcans. Sarek’s efforts will be ruined and his reputation further damaged...”

“But, we are talking about your safety, your life…”

“And one could argue that the needs of the many outweigh those of a few,” Michael continues to protest, like the naive, illogical human she is. “I will not waste the precious opportunity I have been given, if it will yield future opportunities for others. Especially for my younger brother…”

Needlessly sacrificial. Purely illogical. Absolutely insane. 

But still completely logical. Afterall, there was nothing T’Risa would not do for her own family. She feels her anger - not only for Seyhan and the council - but for her own complicity as well. For years, she hid her Romulan refugee mother from others, only to have Seyhan discover her. In exchange for his continued silence and her hard-earned career, she traded her own katra, turning a blind-eye to her peers’ suffering.

She lets her a little bit longer. With a handkerchief, T’Risa wipes away all of her tears from Michael's face and from her own breast. 

“Will you lend me your support?” Michael asks, her voice all too soft.

“Yes,” T’Risa replies, holding her a little bit tighter.


	18. Day 8: Water, Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock has to choose between telling his father he wants to go into Starfleet or loosing his virginity a girl he hardly knows. Guess which he picks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: 
> 
> Intent to commit pseudo-incest but no actual pseudo-incest happens because 1) the characters DO NOT know each other in ANY capacity, 2) have not at any point have had normalized familial relationship. As far as they are concerned, they are ships passing each other in the night.
> 
> Not-Really Dub-Con, but Pon Farr happens. Consent is raised and given continuously.
> 
> No Age Issues but I had to do some age math to make sure I have the appropriate warnings:
> 
> So, Sybok is the oldest - he is six years older than Spock, two years older than Michael.
> 
> Michael is four years older than Spock.
> 
> Spock is a January baby (LIKE ME!). Gabrielle is Spock's age.
> 
> So, AU!Vulcan!Burham and Spock are both 18+, which is why Spock is about to graduate from the VLC.
> 
> So, Regular!AU!Burnham is 22 and in her final year at the VSA/join the VEG.
> 
> PHEW!

First, the carpenters build a cabin in the back corner of his clan’s estate. The environmental technicians pass through soon after - bringing warmth and light, transforming a house into a home. 

Then, the inspector arrives. Spock watches from his favorite perch on a nearby rock outcropping, as his well-known, highly respected intergalactic Ambassador father waits with trepidation while a wizened-old thing of a woman explores every inch of the structure. Eventually, she presses her thumb against his PADD, giving him her final seal of approval. 

Lastly, a girl appears. Or at least, that’s what his mother announces during their morning meal a few days later. She explains that Sarek is fostering yet another refugee girl - a Vulcan-Human hybrid like Spock. Oddly, her news gives him a sense of pride. He is not alone and there are others like him, like his family... 

“Then, should she not live in the house with us?” Spock asks, setting a cup of spice tea in front of her.

Amanda shakes her head: “Her situation is very complex. She requires some distance for now.” 

And that was that. 

At times, Spock sees his father and the mystery girl from afar, walking along the property line or taking tea together on her patio. But not once, in the two years that passed since her arrival, did he make his way over to her cabin to introduce himself. 

Especially now, considering Spock has much bigger concerns: One day, during evening meal, Sarek reveals he has secured an acceptance to the VSA on his son’s behalf.

“You will start next month after your VLC graduation ceremony,” his father announces, in the matter-of-fact tone that makes Spock feel nauseous “This is a great honor, my son.”

And it is a great honor. However, what Sarek does not realize is that his son has also received acceptance into Starfleet. And he knows his father will, as Sybok so eloquently phrased it, go absolutely apeshit when he finally tells him that Spock will be on a transport to San Francisco in two weeks’ time.

Illogically, he cannot bring himself to tell Sarek the truth. His desert hikes bring no courage. Meditation brings him no clarity. Throwing Michael around during Suss Mahna practice brings no cheer. Even Mother’s stories bring no comfort.

So, Spock decides to go for a walk through the gardens, because, honestly, he is just out of options. On his eighteenth trip through the rose garden, he finds Ahn - their bodyguard and loyal family servant - taking apart her phasers on a stone bench.

She pauses her inspection briefly to incline her head in acknowledgement before returning to her task.

“Ahn, have you seen Sarek?” he asks.

“ _Your father_ should be at the Embassy now. But if you need someone to speak with, perhaps pay a visit to Ms. Gabby...” she answers without looking up, a minute smile tugs the corner of her sharp mouth. 

Spock has always found Ahn’s mischievous nature annoying. For a full-blooded Vulcan to so casually toss aside everything he worked so hard to become is somewhat infuriating.

“...Gabby?” he repeats, ignoring her bait. It sounds childish coming from his own tongue. 

“It is the diminutive form of ‘Gabrielle.’ This was her mother’s name and now is her name. The name of the girl your father adopted and that you have not acknowledged for 2 years, 1 month, and 6 days. Maybe you should finally introduce yourself...sir...”

Spock walks off without saying goodbye. However, as irritating as she may be, Ahn might have given him some decent advice. This “Gabby” was rather close to Sarek. Maybe speaking with her could yield some insight on how to actually speak to his own father. 

Annoyed but left with little other choice, Spock makes his way over to the cabin.

~~~

It is too quaint, like one of those kitschy cottage paintings his human grandmother hangs on her living room walls: A nah’ru covered lattice arc stands at the entrance of the walkway. A garden full of Vulcanian herbs, flowers, fruits, and vegetables run alongside it. He notes how everything is so lovingly and purposefully grown. It seems that this Gabby is quite the agriculturalist. 

The patio tiles are arranged in pleasing geometric shapes, mimicking the T’khut’s phases through the night sky. He spots a samovar of what smells like spiced tea and carefully arranged fruit platter sitting on the chiseled stone table. Ahn did mention that Sarek had intended to visit before he was called away to work, but it was odd that the girl would fail to return it to cold storage.

Spock climbs the stoop and rings the door chime three times. There is no answer. While it is illogical (and rude) to enter another’s home without invitation, he tests the knob anyway.

Slowly, the door creaks open.

“Hello?” Spock calls out. No answer. He nearly recoils upon entering: a rush of air like an overwhelming fragrance assaults his olfactory senses. He pushes through it and sees that the interior is just as kitschy as its exterior. There is a sitting room with a card table and a drink cart. The living room is full of books and patchwork quilts. Spock spots a large knitting basket and what looks like Gabby’s latest project laying on the coffee table. Her modest dining room shares space with a kitchen full of herbs and flowers hung to dry (“That explains the smell,” he muses to himself.) on every wall. 

Spock notices a cutting board full of half sliced saffir bread, but its knife lay on the floor. He picks it up and places it carefully in the sink before moving on. What in Surak’s divine name has happened here? 

“Ms. Gabrielle, are you home?” he calls out again. Spock’s ears twitch as they catch the faint sound of falling water. He follows it, letting it lead him deeper into the cabin. The scent becomes more intense with each step, so much so that his breathing becomes slightly labored. It is as if he is in a thick fog, its vapor clouding his thoughts, its chill burning his lungs. He passes by several more rooms - a surprisingly spartan guest bedroom and bath, a gym area filled with weapons that he has never seen before, some storage closets… 

Eventually, Spock finds the main bedroom. The sound of water begins to roar in his ears, the smell so intense that it makes him dizzy. 

He _feels_ unnerved. Slowly, Spock opens the door. Gabrielle’s room is like that of a child - the walls are brightly colored, its shelves lined with trinkets and stuffed toys. Her bed is a violent pink, fluffy heap of lace-trimmed duvets and embroidered throw pillows. There is a carpet with a woven le’matya design that covers most of the floor. 

But what catches his attention is the sight of a ribbon-covered bra hanging on the back of her desk chair. Distractedly, Spock picks it up, his fingers pinching each strap as he raises it eye level. It is just an undergarment - nothing unlike what Michael or Ahn or his mother wears. And yet... 

_He needs to focus…!_ Spock tosses it back onto the chair and forces himself to walk - step-by-step - towards the bathroom. His hand trembles slightly as he knocks. 

“G-Gabrielle, are y-you here…?”

A moan slips from beneath the door. Whether it is from pain or pleasure, Spock is not sure but for some reason he _feels_ anxious to find out. Why is he so eager to violate another’s privacy? Why is he behaving like...like a _human_ …!? Though every instinct, every impulse screams at him not to, Spock turns the knob. He enters and finds a fully-dressed figure sitting against the back of the tub, their head bowed while the shower cascades over them. 

He rushes over and turns it off. As he leans in to pull Gabrielle into his arms, he cannot help but notice that her dress is completely soaked through, making her breasts visible through the thin fabric. 

She groans softly as he lifts her up, which is good because it means she is still alive and Sarek will have one less thing to be mad at him about. Gabrielle’s head flops backward causing Spock to actually openly express alarm: this girl looks just like Michael, but around his age with brow ridges and her pointed ears. 

But more concerning, she burns to the touch. Her face is flush - a bright mossy green blush that spreads across her cheeks and nose bridge. 

And then it hits him again - that sickly saccharine, cloying scent from before. It is so intense, so permeating that it drives every logical, coherent thought from his mind. Embarrassed, he feels his pants front becoming constricting. Gabrielle’s eyes finally flutter open. They are human like his own. She turns her fevered gaze towards his face as her full lips part with a tremble. 

“I-it is….too...s-soon…” she pants, her chest heaving enticingly with each rattling breath. “...told S-Sarek n-not to come…Tarkalean Flu...”

“B-but that’s not it….is it?” he counters.

Slowly, Gabrielle shakes her head. “...don’t...wanna...hurt...y-you…”

“You...w-won’t…” Spock begins to stammer, his own blood boiling. “...let me...h-help you…” 

She nods. Gingerly, she touches the sides of his face with her fingers. He leans eagerly into her delicate touch. Spock feels his own lust increasing as she pours her feelings into him through their meld. When she finally releases him, he all but sprints with her back into the bedroom.

~~~

There is no ceremony. No marriage procession. No fancy speeches. No lirpa fight. No Matriarch T’Pau making pronouncements about tradition and honor.

Spock drops Gabrielle onto her back into that pink, lacy nest of a bed. She pulls her thoroughly-soaked skirt up around her hips, before he yanks her panties around her ankles. He wants this. _They want this_. He does not bother removing his pants. Spock unzips his fly and threads his erection through its opening, before scrambling over Gabrielle’s supplant form.

Clumsily, he presses himself against the entrance of her sex. His hands tremble - from excitement, from nerves - resulting in several failed attempts to connect, until Gabrielle gently takes hold of his manhood and helps guide him inside of her.

Spock moans like a quattil in heat. Everything is simply “too much” - too wet, too hot, too hungry. He cannot filter out the intensity of each sensation and fears that she will swallow him whole as Gabrielle begins to _clench_ around him. 

“Gods, you feel g-good…” Gabrielle groans. She locks her ankles behind the small of his back, pushing him in deeper. Spock attempts to move, his hips grinding in uncoordinated, uneven thrusts. She slowly bucks against him, helping set his rhythm.

Every snap of his hips elicits an encouraging moan from her lips. Spock takes hold of the headboard to keep his balance as he picks up his pace. Gabrielle lets out a cry as she clutches at her duvet, arching against him. Her muscular legs flopping helplessly around him as Spock pounds into her. He can feel a tightness building in his abdomen - a familiar forceful heat threatening to erupt from deep within. Not long after, his body spasms as if lightning racing through every nerve ending. Spock’s mind goes blank, forgetting the shame of pouring himself into someone he did not even know until an hour ago.

Bonelessly, he collapses on top of Gabrielle, pressing her into the mattress. The fug of her breath is hot against his ear as they lay entangled together. He does not know why, but Spock moves to nibble at her jaw and throat. He bites down hard, causing Gabrielle to whimper in a pain as he marks her umber skin between his teeth.

After a while, sensation returns to his limbs and Spock carefully rolls himself off of her. 

“S-sorry…” he apologizes. “I...T-this w-was my first time. I did not m-mean to-”

“Obviously…” she pants back in reply. “...that only took five m-minutes…” 

He feels himself blushing furiously at his less than adequate performance. T’Pring has never given anything more than her mouth and even then she enjoyed biting him more than sucking him off. And other than when he would relieve himself during his morning shower, Spock had little sexual experience.

Still, he watches as Gabrielle draws her knees upward, holding them apart by her ankles. Slowly, his cum seeps from her, running down the crevasse of her taut ass, pooling onto her duvet.... 

“Pity,” she mutters. “I guess you’ll have to try again…” 

She makes good on her suggestion as Gabrielle detangles herself and scrambles from the bed. She grabs him up by the back of his tunic as if he were a wayward sehlat pup and props him up against a nearby wall. 

And by the gods, she is _fast_. The girl’s hands are veritable blur as she unfastens his belt and tosses it to the side. To his embarrassment, she laughs a bit as Spock’s pants fall around his ankles. 

“They are white,” she teases, snapping the waistband of his briefs. Cheeks blushing, Spock moves to cover himself. “You are so...cute…” 

“Cute?” he starts to ask, but in one fluid motion, Gabrielle tears away his undergarments like they were paper. A rush of fear causes his manhood to spring back to life as Spock feels himself hardening again as she casually tosses his ruined undergarments to the side.

“I want more,” Gabrielle half-whispers, crowding him against the wall until his back is pressed flat. With flexibility Spock has only witnessed in the pornographic holos Sybok gifted him before he left Vulcan, she lifts her leg upward and rests her heel on his shoulder. “Will you...let me…?”

Her raw heat, the smell of his cum and her arousal are too enticing. Spock nods. Gabrielle wraps her arms around his shoulder as she leans against him, gently pressing the head of his shaft against her entrance, sinking onto him inch-by-inch. At this angle, Gabrielle’s pussy feels even tighter as she pushes all the way down to the base of his cock. Spock bites the inside of his cheek and thinks of unpleasant things like his human relatives eating barbecue to keep himself from cumming.

“You good…?” he hears her murmur into his ear.

“Y-yes…” he manages to reply. And Gabrielle begins to move. She thrusts are slower, more shallow, allowing pulling herself halfway up his shaft before sliding back down. Carefully, Spock wraps one hand around her ankle and the other supports the small of her back, maneuvering her a bit so he can fuck her more deeply. Gabrielle shifts her grip to his shoulders as she bounces against him. 

The wall and the desk begin to shake - a picture clatters to the floor, a few items topples over from her desk but they keep going. 

“Al-almost…!” she moans. He can feel her tightening, almost _devouring_ at his cock as she contracts pleasurably around him. A few more thrusts and Gabrielle cries out, her fingernails biting into his shoulders as she cums. It is not long after that Spock feels himself seize up. He holds her tightly against his body as he spills his seed into her once again. And after a few more pumps, he is spent. 

Gabrielle carefully decouples from him. Her legs shake as she stumbles back towards the bed and sprawls out on top of it. Spock is left equally breathless. He slides down the wall and sits hard on the ground, his head feeling like a krovill nest. 

“Spock.” 

He looks up as Gabrielle pushes herself onto her hands and knees. She leans forward, arching her back as she presents herself like a sehlat. 

“P-please…” she begs. Perhaps it is the sight of her pert breasts pressed against the mattress or the sight of his cum running down the length of her inner thighs, but Spock somehow finds the strength to pull himself back onto his feet. Every part of him aches but he half-stumbles his way over to the bed. His knees hit the edge of the mattress as he carefully positions himself behind her. With one hand, he vigorously strokes his manhood back to life, while the other grabs hold of Gabrielle’s hip and guides her backwards toward him. There is a soft squishing sound as he penetrates her and pushes himself all the way to his hilt.

At this point, everything becomes automatic. Spock and Gabrielle rut against each other, the slapping of their flesh and their moans echoing in the bedroom. For a moment, he catches a glimpse of himself in her bedside mirror and briefly ponders on how they resemble a pair of hayalits at the height of the spawning season as he fucks her _yet again_. Gabrielle begins to swing her hips as Spock tries to thrust into her, each twist can be felt by every nerve ending on his already sensitive cock. Try as he might, Spock orgasms for the third time. He groans and falls forward, pinning Gabrielle flat against the mattress as he empties whatever semen he could possibly have left into her.

Spots swarms across his vision as Spock’s rolls off her and onto his side in a boneless, gasping heap on the bed. There is nothing left within him - not a mind of his own and not the will to make any of this stop. Gabrielle’s Pon Farr-driven lust consumes him completely. 

Even in his depleted state, Spock does not resist as she flips him onto his back and maneuvers herself between his splayed legs. Grabbing the back of his knees, she pushes his legs against his chest, pulling him into a tabletop position (He was only familiar with the terminology because Michael insisted on making him attend a Terran “yoga” class.). Next, Gabrielle straddles the back of his thighs, gently threading his manhood between his legs before she aligns its head against her sex.

“Stay with me…” he hears her pleading. Weakly, he nods. With a smile, Gabrielle sits fully onto his cock, causing Spock to grunt as his awkward position pushes the air from his lungs as his spine digs into the mattress. As she starts to bounce, his legs flail and flop about. Spock wonders if he may snap in half under her enthusiastic efforts...

~~~

When he finally wakes, Spock feels as if he fought with a pack of wild norsehlat. Every fiber, every sinew aches with a new, unfamiliar pain. As he blinks the sleep from his eyes, he realizes that the bedroom has been put in order - fresh linens on the bed, pictures rehung, bathroom floor mopped... As he sits up and pulls back the covers, Spock finds he has been “tidied up” as well. His skin has been wiped clean and he is now dressed in a nightgown. Slowly, Spock smooths his hands down the soft fabric.

His ears begin to twitch as he picks up on faint noises coming from the hall. Spock climbs out of bed and follows them to the kitchen, where he finds Gabrielle standing by the sink. The girl is making some sort of concoction as she pours a powdered substance into a glass of water, raises it to her full lips, and drinks half of it in a single gulp.

“Are...you well…?” he asks as she pulls an unpleasant expression.

“You’d think that Vulcans would make a tastier emergency contraceptive,” Gabrielle says to him from over her shoulder. “Sorry, Spock, but I just met you and I’d rather not have your child.”

“L-logically,” he replies as she gulps down the rest of her medicine. She sets her glass in the sink before she turns to face him. 

“How are you feeling? Did I break anything?” Gabrielle asks, her expression conveying concern. “I know we were rather rough with each other last night…”

Spock shakes his head, eyes darting to the bandage on her jaw. “Do not concern yourself with me. It was I who was a great imposition on you.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” she returns with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I had fun.” 

With that, she gestures to the table where a traditional Vulcan breakfast of plomeek broth, saffir bread, fruit, and kh’aa tea waits for them. They eat together, the sounds of the tinkling of utensils and occasional complement and sips of tea underscoring the silence between them. The domestic atmosphere is a stark but, nonetheless, pleasing contrast to yesterday.

As they eat, Gabrielle reveals that they are roughly the same age, give or take a month or two. But due to her alternated genetics, her Ponn Farr began at age sixteen. She tells him that she is a Human-Vulcan hybrid with a human mother as well; that she is his Michael’s equivalent from another dimension and has no intention of ever returning, which is why Sarek took her in even after she attempted to take his life. 

“It was all just a big misunderstanding,” she explains. “I thought he was _my_ Sarek, who is a real bastard, by the way. But now, we’re all good.”

“Fascinating,” is all Spock can say to that completely insane story. 

When they finish, he offers to help clear the table but Gabrielle declines. She orders him to shower and dress. And apparently, she had taken the time to launder his clothing too. 

After Spock reluctantly scrubs every inch of her delicious scent from his skin, he dries off and dresses himself. When he emerges from the bedroom, he wanders around a bit in search of Gabrielle and finds her sitting in her living room, absorbed in her knitting.

“I shall be leaving now. Thank you for your...hospitality.”

Gabrielle laughs. “Is that we’re calling it?” 

“Anyway, this is for your Dad,” she explains as she hands him a small package wrapped in fabric. Spock sniffs - it smells like the gespar rolls they had for breakfast. “Please be sure to give it to him when you tell him that you plan to leave for Earth in the next two days.”

His eyes go wide. “H-how… I never-”

“You are very loud up here,” she replies, tapping a finger against her ridge brow. “You were telepathically shouting all night, which is how I found out you are choosing Starfleet over the VSA...and that you are also a love with your big sister.”

Spock goes stock still.

“Please...do not tell Michael…” he mutters, clutching the package against his chest. 

“Never!” she reassures him, her expression sincere. “But, please at least tell Sarek the truth.”

“He will be angry.”

“Yeah, he will,” Gabrielle counters, with a smile. “But if Sarek can get over my cutting half of his ear off, then he will certainly forgive you for pursuing your dreams.”

Brutal but her logic is sound. Sarek, like most beings, possesses the capacity to forgive. But Spock is more concerned about how long it will take his father to do so...

~~~

That evening, Spock makes his way to his father's study. His hand shakes a bit before it takes hold of the doorknob. With a deep, shuddering breath he opens it. Sarek is stooped over his work and does not register his presence right away.

“Father,” Spock calls to him.

“My son?” Sarek asks, looking up from his many, many PADDs. “What do you seek?”

What he seeks is to be his own man. And, this is how he will do it. 

Spock steps inside, closing the door behind himself. Standing tall, he strides over to the desk, his hands clasped behind his back, his chin raised high.

“Father,” he begins, his very human eyes shining with emotions he no longer wishes to hide. “May I speak with you?”


	19. Day 4: Powerful, “No, Stop!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T’Rama gets that sehlat and Michael is not a fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Whump, no sex. Family drama~!

The main door's chime rings and Michael pulls herself away from her work to answer it. 

“Buh bahhh?” Soval calls to her from his play mat, half rolling, half flopping in her general direction as she passes. Michael smiles and waves at her youngest but trots off when the chime rings a second time.

“Vesht sarlah, vesht sarlah nash-veh…” she mutters under her breath as she reaches the door. Michael taps the security screen, which reveals a delivery-woman who looks (for a Vulcan) rather harried. Pressing the comm, she asks: “Sos ya'akash ra nash tor pa'?” 

“Wuh tefuk s' Ot-lan S'chn T'gai Spock…” the delivery-woman returns, almost  _ huffily _ . Slowly, Michael opens the door and finds the poor woman’s legs tangled up by a leash - a leash attached to a four-legged, saber-toothed beast with comically oversized paws and fur the color of the Forge sands. 

“Wuh sehlat…?”

“Ha, wuh sehlat…” 

The pup tilts its head to look up at Michael, its long tongue slipping from its panting mouth in a way that would have been endearing, if it also had not proceeded to drool all over their stoop.

“Glat nash,” orders the deliverywoman, holding out a PADD.

“Pen-nil-bek, pen-nil-bek…” begs Michael, shutting the door on the poor thing’s clearly frustrated face. She takes a deep breath and smooths down the fly-aways on her wig before sprinting over to the communication console in the kitchen. She forcefully jabs Spock’s comm frequency code into the panel and waits. After three rings, he answers her call. Michael fixes her best glare as her little brother comes into view.

“Tonk’peh, Michael,” Spock says, his eyebrow raised insufferably.

“At this moment, someone is trying to deliver a sehlat to  _ my _ home,” she says, eschewing a greeting. After all, this is not a friendly conversation. 

Spock inclines his head in understanding. “I see.”

“And they say it is from  _ you _ .”

“Correct. Is there a problem, sister?”   
  


“Yes, the fact that this decision was made without a prior discussion  _ is _ the problem,  _ little _ brother…!” she spits at him. “Honestly, what were you thinking?”

He does not answer her right away. Instead, he tilts his head as if he actually has a rational thought rattling around in his empty skull.

“Well, I promised T’Rama a sehlat several years ago. So, logically, I am keeping that promise…” he begins, slowly. 

Michael feels as if she plunged into Andorian lake she accidentally fell into years ago. How could she have forgotten her daughter’s  _ other _ betrayal? Even worse than that time she brought their sex toy to her preschool’s show-and-tell, T’Rama had sent Spock a sex holo she and Suvoj had made together, thinking that it would cheer her uncle up.

Thank Surak that she never opened it. And, though she did not believe him, her little brother had claimed to have deleted it immediately after he realized what it was…

“I did not watch it,” she hears him protest, pulling her from her thoughts. The tips of his ears and crests of his cheeks are both bright green, casting further doubts, which Michael does not bother to hide on her face. “Furthermore, to my defense, Suvoj did say it would be acceptable to send one since my niece has received highest marks consistently upon her entry to the VLC.”

“A sehlat is a big responsibility for a child and you should not have given such a gift without consulting  **_me_ ** , first,” she hisses. “I hope you will still be this supportive of your niece when we inevitably give it away and she comes to you in tears!” 

With that, Michael ends the call, leaving her to seethe at her own reflection in the darkened screen. Perhaps she can simply have the little beast returned to its sender before her children see it. Maybe she would also have time to hide her husband’s corpse from them as well. Both of them would do well with a change in a father-figure. Perhaps, her second husband would have a better developed sense of self-preservation as well...

But when Michael returns to the foyer, it is far too late: T’Rama and Suvoj are at the door. Her daughter holding Soval on her hip like a sack of potatoes, peers around her father’s legs at the sehlat pup while her husband presses his thumb onto the delivery PADD.

“Nemaiyo,” he thanks the delivery-woman, who uncoils herself from the leash and practically runs off. Suvoj stoops low to guide the pup into their house and shuts the door.

“Adun, what have you done?!” Michael cries… “Send it back, send it back right this instant!”

True to her namesake, T’Rama gives Michael a thunderous look.

“Mommy, stop…!” she protests, stamping her foot and causing Soval to giggle as he bounces on her hip. “Spock Sa-kuk and Samehk promised that if I worked hard and was a good girl, I could have a sehlat…!”

“But  _ Mommy _ did not agree to this. We have to return it.”

“If you send her back, I will send Soval back!” her daughter threatens, hoisting her brother up by his underarms. Soval wrinkles his brow curiously as he swings his chubby legs.

“Back to where, Rama-lama?” Suvoj asks. A sudden need for violence surges in Michael as he fails to hide the amusement in his voice. She can feel the heat rising underneath her collar as she stares down her offspring. As she goes to object, her husband crosses the room and gently grabs her shoulders.

“Adun’a, what is the harm?” he says softly, taking hold of her chin as Michael tries to look away. “Raising a pet will teach them responsibility, respect for living creatures…”

“I am your wife and partner…” she mutters hotly, her eyes shimmering “...you failed to include me in a very important decision, and now, I am being strong armed into agreeing or risk looking like a ‘bad mom.’”

“Adun’a, I-”

“Do as you please…!” she snaps, cutting him off. Michael pulls away from his touch and stalks out of the room. As she reaches her office door, she can feel Suvoj reaching out to her through their bond. 

But Michael shuts both doors firmly behind her.


End file.
